


Forever True

by fajrdrako



Series: Forever True [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: F/M, M/M, The Professionals AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 76,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fajrdrako/pseuds/fajrdrako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary from the zine's flyer: "When Inspector Doyle of the Metropolitan London CTD is assigned a case with Bodie of CI5, the working partnership blossoms into something more passionate. Will the relationship be destroyed by the enemies who attack them, or by the contrary forces of their personal lives?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forever True - Part 1

**one ******

**The call came at last on the r/t.**

**As with so many jobs, there were hours of waiting before the action, and Bodie and Susan weremore than ready for a break in the monotony. CI5 had been doing surveillance on the houseon Romany Road until Bodie could have recited a description of every visitor and the cars they drove up in. Both he and Susan were heartily sick of the view, which had nothing to recommend it.**

**The house they were watching hid illegal weapons. Cowley was certain of it. He had traced it through an IRA informer; his agents had been watching it for days. Cowley was in fine form, hot on the trail, his eyes bright with anticipation of a major bust.**

**What they needed was to catch the owners and take them with their goods. For a fortnight, anyone who had come or gone from the house had been photographed and classified. Bodie and his partner Susan were staked out in an upstairs back room of the house behind, from which they could watch their target over the garden wall. They could see the windows (only one with a light just now, and that the kitchen) and the back exit, including the entrance to the cellars.**

**Bodie felt the excitement of a job about to come to its climax. Susan had the binoculars, and he had his own sharp eyes. He was unhappily munching a liver sausage sandwich, because it was Susan who had gone last to pick up some grub. Bodie was hungry enough to eat anything, and too wrapped up in the job to complain about it aloud.**

**Not that Susan would let him. She had little interest in food, and no sympathy for his fondness for it. Nevertheless, when he brought in Chinese takeaway instead of stale sandwiches, she ate happily enough. She wore jeans and trainers and a loose, bulky pullover. Bodie was in black: turtleneck, trousers, leather jacket, with his gun neatly holstered against his shoulder.**

**Susan answered the call: “This is 4.9. Is there action?”**

**“Affirmative, 4.9,” said the unmistakable voice of 8.4, Murphy. “A car has stopped in front. They’re parking.”**

**“I can see the headlamps,” said Bodie. As he said it, the lights disappeared.**

**“They’re getting out,” said Murphy. “Going to the house. I think this is it.”**

**“Eureka,” said Bodie softly. Susan glanced at him. She always could tell when he was keyed up. He gave her a brief, reassuring smile that was, had he known it, more frightening than his frown.**

**She smiled back. She also liked action.**

**Then they heard a gunshot.**

**Without waiting for orders, Bodie and Susan ran down the back stairs and across the garden, clearing the fence as if it were a hurdle, guns drawn as they crossed the dark garden. Lights were going on in the house, and they could see shadows on the blinds.**

**“Hell,” said Susan, pausing with her .38 drawn. “Can you tell what’s happening?”**

**“Not well enough,” replied Murphy.**

**“Cars arriving out front,” said Bodie. “Reinforcements?”**

**A judgement call: whether to fall back before it was too late, or to make a move now. Bodie knew without asking which Susan preferred. He said into his r/t: “Murph? We’re moving in.”**

**Murphy cursed, but Bodie had already cut the connection and was running. He and Susan broke the lock on the back door and stepped into the kitchen, guns at the ready.**

**Someone disappeared through the kitchen door. Otherwise, the room was empty.**

**There was a shout, and some sixth sense made Bodie duck and roll as something pinged over his head. Not a bullet. He had no time to investigate, but ran, Susan at his heels, into the hallway. A man was aiming a weapon at him. He shot him in the leg, watched him fall, kicked his gun aside. It was a regular weapon, an American handgun. “Where are the others?” he demanded, but the man, groaning, ignored him.**

**“This way,” said Susan, running up the stairs. He followed.**

**They covered each other on the landings. They checked the second floor --finding mattresses laid out side by side, signs that someone had slept there, but no evidence of permanent occupation. They heard footsteps above, voices outside. Someone opened the downstairs front door.**

**“Up,” said Bodie, running.**

**There was a flash of light and something singed his arm. They had wanted to see the new high-tech weapons in action. This was it, with themselves as living targets. Bodie threw himself against the wall, letting Susan cover him. She shot straight up at the man with the weapon and he jumped back out of her range. “Damn,” she muttered. “I missed. That wasn’t a bullet, Bodie.”**

**“I noticed,” said Bodie grimly. He pushed open the first door he came to. Two men: “Drop your weapons!” he snapped, and they did so, with the nervous haste of the amateur. Whoever they were, they had been recruited off the street, with minimal training in dealing with this kind of attack from professional operatives. That meant they were hardly likely to have any useful information to give under interrogation. That was a nuisance. CI5 needed information and they needed the men behind the weapons sales, not the low-ranked thugs.**

**Bodie picked up one of the weapons they had thrown down. He whistled in admiration. With its smooth craftsmanship, it might have won prizes as a work of art rather than as an instrument of murder. There was no obvious stamp of manufacture or place of origin; the markings on it were anonymous. Sleek and metallic, the weapon would not have been out of place in Dr Who. Fascinated by its design, Bodie could not make anything of its mechanism.**

**With weapons of this quality in their hands, the men they were after must have admirable resources, including wealth, or access to wealth. Clearly, this was not some backstreet operation. It had considerable backing. Foreign backing? Impossible to say, but uncomfortably likely.**

**While Bodie gathered the weapons, Susan efficiently tied up the hired help, and pulled out her r/t again. “Alpha One? Two miscreants in custody, sir. Third floor. They’re using unusual firearms.”**

**“Unusual in what way?” said Cowley’s familiar Scots voice.**

**Susan handed the r/t to Bodie: it was his area of expertise. “Unfamiliar design, sir. There seem to be laser sights. I can’t determine the country of origin or the power source. One weapon shot some sort of energy beam, with no projectile.”**

**“The country of origin, I’m sorry to say, is England,” replied Cowley. “The design is something I would like to have a look at. I’m on my way.”**

**“Yes, sir,” said Bodie, but Cowley had already cut the connection. He glanced at Susan, who was tying knots Houdini would have trouble with.**

**“I’m going down,” said Bodie.**

**“Be careful,” said Susan.**

**He ignored her, and went down two levels. At the bottom of the stairs, someone stepped around the corner of the hallway, a machine gun levelled at his chest. He shot, fast, dropping, his consciousness filled with the sudden awareness of death.**

**He had been here before, on the edge of the precipice, often enough. A man in his line of work had to deal in death, his own as well as that of others. Fear was merely another detail to be taken into consideration, to be used, to be handled. Sometimes it brought nothing but mind-numbing terror, while trained reflexes and inborn instincts took over. Sometimes it brought a moment of insight --a lifetime flashing through the brain in a microsecond, the knowledge of deeds undone and deeds that would have been better had they never been done. Hopes, triumphs, tragedies, failures, all that makes up one’s past, revived in a split second of timelessness.**

**To Bodie, this time, it was the knowledge of loneliness that filled him. They say you always face death alone, but it was life that held so much loneliness. Strong, independent, uncompromising loneliness. Without stopping to consider the implications of the thought he shot the man before him, watched him fall, knowing how close he had come to death.**

**Then Bodie twirled at a movement behind him.**

**He did not need to shoot. Another armed man was falling already, his gunshot going wide because of a well-placed kick by a curly-haired stranger, who followed it up with a boot to the neck. The man who would have shot Bodie went down, his gun falling to the side. He lay motionless.**

**“Much obliged,” said Bodie.**

**But the newcomer was not ready to give him the benefit of the doubt. His rescuer stepped forward into the hallway, green eyes blazing. “Hold it!” he said to Bodie, his voice hard with authority. “Drop that gun. You’re under arrest.”**

**“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Bodie. He was not intimidated by the manner, especially from someone who was more tough than large, and unarmed at that. He glared at the stranger, some over-trained cop with flair for martial arts who had no idea what he was walking into. Not a patrolman, which Bodie’d expected: plain clothes CID, in tight jeans and plaid jacket. Curly hair and slim build gave him the impression of youth. Tired green eyes, heavy with experience and hostility, gave a contradictory  
impression of maturity. He looked like the late night security at Polly’s Dance Club. “You have the wrong side here, sunshine. I’m one of the good guys.” **

**“Hands up,” snapped the CID man, not believing him for a minute.**

**“They’ll get away!” snapped Bodie in return. He’d already heard footsteps going towards the back door. “I’m CI5, you cretinous golly, and this is a raid we’ve been orchestrating for weeks!”**

**The cretinous golly hesitated only a moment, then said, “Stop them, then,” and began to run. He was fast enough to elude the thug who tried to ambush him in the kitchen, leaving him to Bodie, who took his gun (a new Berretta) and handcuffed him to the refrigerator. By the time Bodie was out the door, the enterprising copper was fighting the one trying to escape. An efficient fist to the jaw put him down.**

**Bodie watched sardonically. All they needed was ill-trained civilians getting in the way, and in his opinion, there were no ill-trained civilians as useless as the police force.**

**He could hear sirens from the street. What fool had called in the Met?**

**The cop said, “All right, let’s see your ID.”**

**Bodie showed it, silently. The CID man raised his eyebrows. “Bodie? No first name?”**

**“CI5 agent 3.7,” said Bodie coolly. “I don’t need to answer your questions.”**

**“Friendly sort, aren’t you?” said the lame-brain. “Well, I’m Detective Inspector Ray Doyle of the Met.” He held out his hand to shake, but Bodie ignored it rudely, walking back into the kitchen.**

**“Stow it,” he said. “Go home. This isn’t police business.”**

**“I’d like to know what’s going on here.”**

**“Curiosity killed the cat,” said Bodie. “Read about it in the papers, all right?”**

**Cowley appeared in the doorway, Murphy behind him. “Bodie? Show me the weapons.” He followed Bodie up the stairs quite as if his leg wasn’t hurting him, which Bodie knew it was. DI Doyle shamelessly came along right behind them.**

**Susan already had a crate open in the upper front room. “Can’t identify any of them, sir,” she said. “Some of it’s clearly weapons. Some of it looks like computer parts.”**

**“It’s what we’ve been looking for, all right,” said Cowley. He took out a length of black tubing and examined it, his eyes shining as if it were a piece of rare art or a precious cut jewel. “Aye, they’ll have a lot to answer for.”**

**“Is it a weapon?” asked Susan.**

**“Aye, lass, that it is.”**

**“Something Bodie can’t identify?” Her tone clearly indicated the impossibility of this.**

**“Something Bodie’s never seen before,” said Bodie. “But then, that’s what we were led to expect, isn’t it? Something entirely different from any weapon we’ve seen before.”**

**“Oh, no,” said Cowley, smiling as if Bodie were his preschool nephew who had said something cute. “Not entirely different. It may look different, handle differently, and do new and nastier things --but like all weapons, its purpose is to kill.” His eyes focussed on the stranger standing behind Bodie. “Who are you?”**

**“Detective Inspector Ray Doyle of the Metropolitan Police,” said Doyle, walking past Bodie to hold out his hand. This time it was taken, shaken warmly.**

**“George Cowley, CI5,” said the Scotsman. He did not need to add, “Controller”. Anyone in law enforcement in London knew of George Cowley, the legendary instigator of the notorious CI5. Some thought his department a good thing for the country, a strong move towards effective law and order. Others saw it as the first signs of the imposition of a secret police and a step towards fascism.**

**“He tried to arrest me,” said Bodie sourly.**

**Susan laughed. “Always said your crimes would catch up to you.”**

**“Thought you were a madman with a gun,” said DI Doyle.**

**“He is a madman with a gun,” said Susan. She held out her hand. “And I’m his partner, Susan Fisher.”**

**“How do you do,” said the detective, shaking it.**

**Cowley said to him, “I think we have everything under control here, Inspector Doyle. Thank you for your assistance.”**

**“What about the bloke in the garden?” asked Doyle.**

**“I think we can handle the bloke in the garden. Bodie?”**

**Bodie nodded, and stood back for Doyle to precede him through the door. He knew the copper was being damned inquisitive but he couldn’t blame him. He shouldn’t let his curiosity show, though.**

**Unprofessional. Still, his career was probably mostly full of punters who shot their mothers for insurance or pimps who shot their whores for economy’s sake. Couldn’t blame a man for an interest in something more substantial.**

**“Who called you in so fast?”**

**“Woman next door heard shots. Got right on the telephone. Got it on the car radio, wasn’t far away.”**

**Bodie said, in way of expiation, “Good timing, then. Thanks.”**

**“For what?”**

**“Taking out the one behind me.”**

**The intelligent green eyes rested on him for a moment. Then Ray Doyle said merely, “You’re welcome,” and went out the door.**

**In the normal course of things, that would have been that.**

**Bodie watched as Doyle walked to his car, a two-tone Ford Escort, rather battered. Doyle turned at the car door, and smiled, as if he had just heard a wicked joke.**

**That smile stayed in Bodie’s mind, so that he thought of it later, when they were being debriefed by Cowley; thought of it when they were talking with the weapons men who analysed their illicit treasure-trove; thought of it again when they went to the downstairs lab where a CI5 forensic doctor was doing his thing with one of the men Bodie had shot.**

**He could not think why he remembered it so vividly, but he liked the memory.**

**Ray Doyle, pulling in to the car park at the station, was intrigued by his adventure with the CI5 men. They’d had no interest in sharing information with him, and would have been astounded at how much he’d observed and guessed. Or perhaps not, thought Doyle wryly, remembering the shrewdness of George Cowley’s eyes. He wouldn’t like to be on the wrong end of an interrogation room with that man.**

**He’d heard a lot in the force about CI5, most of it unfounded rumour, most of it bad. He believed some of it, dismissed the rest, and tried to keep an open mind. Different levels of law enforcement were necessary, he acknowledged. He did not quite approve of CI5, where agents carried guns but not warrants, and were free to use or abuse their power without explanation.**

**On the other hand, more than half his suspicions were based on sheer jealousy. The dark-haired agent, Bodie, had seen right through him to the curiosity and the excitement. He’d heard that call on the radio, knew the house was less than half a mile away, and had gone like a bat out of hell not because he was a good cop and wanted to be on the scene for the public safety --though he was, and that was reason enough.**

**No: he had wanted to be there because he was bored. And this agent Bodie had seen that, and rightly mocked him for it.**

**Not that Bodie could know that he was given the nastier jobs, the insoluble homicides, the more thankless cases. For all Bodie knew he might be the hero of the Met, rather than a struggling thorn in Superintendent Brace’s tough hide.**

**Unused to being read, the incident left Doyle feeling uncomfortable. He didn’t like to be transparent, prided himself on being difficult to read, good at covering his reactions. He ought to have taken up acting.**

**It meant this man Bodie was bloody observant, as well as being a first-rate marksman and fast on his feet. It meant he was unusually intelligent, and Doyle was used to thinking of himself as the most intelligent person around, in the general course of things.**

**He didn’t often meet men for whom he felt admiration. Usually he met the shiftless, the stupid, the cunning, the self-serving, regardless of which side of the law they were on. Sometimes he did meet people he truly liked, and the occasions were pleasurable though infrequent. Even more rare were the occasions on which he met people he truly esteemed.**

**He laughed at his own thoughts, as he got out of his car and locked it. Ray Superior Doyle, he told himself, are you so fucking smug you can’t believe anyone’s your equal? Even in CI5, where they hire the best of the best? And you don’t just go and apply, they come looking for you.**

**Not much chance of that, given Big Man Brace’s attitude to him. He knew his work was good, but he was hardly likely to be recommended for any position more challenging than errand boy.**

**Sod it! All he could do was the best work he was capable of, and sooner or later Brace would be transferred or retired or --a better thought still --murdered by one of his long-suffering underlings, driven too far. Justifiable homicide, that would be it.**

**Pleased by the thought, Doyle was smiling when he walked into his office. Detective Sergeant Cooper said, “Brace wants to see you.”**

**“Oh, hell,” said Doyle, which was milder than his normal reaction on hearing this news.**

**“He wants to know what progress you’ve made on the Pallison case, and to hear what you were doing with CI5.” Cooper’s eyes glinted with interest. She was black, smart, tough, and the best ally Doyle had.**

**“Now?” said Doyle.**

**“Now or sooner. Well?”**

**“Well what?”**

**“Are you going to tell me what you were doing with CI5?”**

**“Heard a report of gunshots. Went to have a look.”**

**“Go on.”**

**“Have to go see Brace.”**

**“Bugger Brace. You’re teasing me.”**

**“Sure. I like the way your eyes flash when you’re teased.”**

**“I’ll put salt in your coffee. I’ll tell Brace you collect pornography.” The Superintendent was a notorious prude: bigoted, closed-minded, homophobic, and a dedicated censor.**

**“Blackmail will get you nowhere,” said Doyle, sitting at his desk and leaning back, hands behind his head. “But I’ll tell you out of the kindness of my heart. It was a weapons bust --high-tech stuff, some of it foreign. Russian, I’d reckon. Three CI5 agents and their Chief, two bodies, four live prisoners. They were quite efficient about it, but one CI5 bloke was almost shot before my eyes.”**

**“Did he look like James Bond?”**

**“The villain? No. One of the agents was a woman.”**

**“I could be a CI5 agent, maybe,” said Cooper, grinning. “Martial arts training, investigative training --”**

**“If they want you, I’m sure they’ll send for you,” said Doyle, wishing as he said it that they would send for him.**

**He went to see Superintendent Brace. Visits to Brace’s office always made him feel like a kid called to the headmaster, which was not something he considered a healthy working relationship. The problem was, he had difficulty showing respect to a man whom he considered had the intellectual capacity of the average turnip.**

**And Brace in turn was always alert for anything Doyle might do requiring disciplinary action. This characteristically incited Doyle to flippancy, impertinence, and flirtation with insubordination.**

**He knocked, and entered as commanded. Brace looked across the desk at him like a judge facing the accused. He was a large man, with thin, receding hair and a thick, expanding waistline. Brace said, “What’s this I hear about you running around after CI5?”**

**“A woman saw intruders, heard gunshots. I was in the vicinity. It turned out to be a CI5 weapons raid.”**

**“Eh? So what was it all about?”**

**“CI5 didn’t want to give me details, sir. If you want to know more, I’m sure Major Cowley could tell you, if you ring him up.”**

**Both men knew what short shrift Brace would get from Major Cowley.**

**“You’d no business meddling,” said Brace.**

**“It’s my business to look into gunshots,” snapped back Doyle. His temper was on a short string, and he added unwisely, “I saved a CI5 man who might have been shot in the back. That makes it worth my while. I’m not going to apologise.”**

**“You never do,” said Brace.**

**That was true and Doyle felt as if he’d won a round.**

**Not that it mattered: the Superintendent ran the whole show. “I have a job for you,” he said, and motioned for Doyle to sit with an airy wave of his hand. “A missing persons case.” He knew Doyle hated these, and he liked forcing them on him, especially when there was every chance the missing person was dead.**

**“We are talking about a missing linguist. The man’s name,” explained Brace, “is Finlay.”**

**\- - -**

**As was so often the case, information from one successful op led to insights on another. Bodie and Susan were off and running on the high-tech arms case, until Cowley called Bodie into his office two days after the raid on the Romany Road house, and said, “Sit down, lad. I’m reassigning you.”**

**Bodie sat cautiously. “Why?” he asked bluntly.**

**“Because I’ve other work for you. Susan can carry on with Murphy.” Agent 8.4 had been on the case with them, and knew how to handle himself. Still, Bodie didn’t like switching jobs in midstream, thought he could do the job better than Murphy, and faster too. He opened his mouth to say so, and stopped, warned by the expression in Cowley’s hard eyes.**

**“It’s a missing persons case,” said Cowley. “And it is imperative that you find this man.” He tossed an envelope to Bodie’s side of his desk.**

**Bodie did not look at it. “I’m working alone?” he asked.**

**“Not at all. We’re co-operating with Scotland Yard, who already have the case well in hand.”**

**Bodie was not pleased. “I don’t like working with coppers,” he said coldly.**

**“What you like has nothing to do with it. Do your job, man, and if I tell you to work with Jack the Ripper or the Dalai Lama, you’ll damn well do it, either way.”**

**“Yes, sir,” said Bodie sourly. He particularly hated working with the Met. Scotland Yard gave him a stomach ache, and the feeling, generally, was mutual. Cowley said, “In that envelope is a photograph of Gerald Finlay, and some basic information about his career. He is a linguist.”**

**“Since when is a linguist CI5 business?”**

**“Since this linguist was working with the military on a project so Top Secret I have been unable to get any information about it.”**

**“So you want me to?”**

**“I want you to find the man himself, Bodie.”**

**“Do we know what sort of top secret . . . ?”**

**“No, we do not.”**

**“Not much to go on,” said Bodie, looking at the picture. A face like many others: a mustache, regular features, nondescript chin. You could pass him in the tube station twenty times over and not know the face.**

**“The man you’ll be working with,” said Cowley, “is Detective Inspector Raymond Doyle.”**

**“The wunderkind of the arms raid,” said Bodie, instantly remembering a smile. Curly hair. Sharp eyes that saw too much. A fast hand with a karate chop, saving his life, delivering into their hands a man who was still talking in Interrogation.**

**The idea of working with Detective Inspector Doyle filled him with a dread and a joy he could not  
explain. **

**“Hop to it, Bodie. I want results, not excuses.”**

**He’d heard that before, too. “Yes, sir,” said Bodie, and left Cowley’s office before it got any worse.**

**\- - -**

**Doyle’s reception of the news was no better. He listened to Brace’s orders in silence, instructions on what to tell the CI5 agent he would work with and how to tell it. He hardly listened: he’d do it his own way in any case, and he could do it better.**

**He felt aggrieved at being forced to share the case, but he could hardly say so to the Mikado. Instead he simply said, “Is CI5’s involvement necessary, sir?”**

**“How should I know? They think it is.” Brace thought a moment, then amended that. “Major Cowley thinks it is.”**

**And you wouldn’t have the brass to argue with Major Cowley, thought Doyle, with irritation. He knew he had no grounds on which to object. It would be necessary to simply carry on, with good grace. He didn’t need to like it.**

**“Who will I be working with?” he asked, trying not to sound annoyed.**

**Brace had to consult his notes. “He’s listed here. Ah, yes. An agent named Bodie. No Christian name.”**

**Doyle did not mention that he had met the man, and how recently. He did not mention that this Bodie was an arrogant bastard with a taste for violence and, clearly, no love for the Met. At least he had, by the end, managed to choke out some semblance of thanks. Not that it was necessary: the assumption that it was, was somehow more insulting than the reluctance.**

**Hell: Doyle knew he was just feeling hostile because he was jealous of the man, for working with CI5, for having both power and freedom to do his job in a way Doyle could only dream of. Nothing about the agent had given him reason to doubt the man’s abilities. He had, in fact, been impressed with his skills -- and it took a lot to impress Doyle.**

**There was something else about Bodie that he could not quite pin down. He thought of how the man had held his gun, strong, certain fingers making their impression on his memory as the man had gone into a controlled dive to shoot. Professionalism; competence; capability.**

**Why was it, then, that the memory disturbed him?**

**“I don’t like working with CI bloody five,” said Doyle to poor long-suffering Cooper. She was sorting out his files, and flashed him a glance before looking down again. He added, “Think they’re above the law, every one of them.”**

**“Right enough,” said Cooper. She was pragmatic, and smart. Life as a black woman in London had taught her to avoid unnecessary battles. “They are above the law. They have special licences.”**

**He looked moodily out of the window. The case was a bugger already without CI5 taking an interest. “Probably thinks he’s 007. Probably drives like a maniac and shoots fancy guns. Bet he chases after women, too. You watch yourself with him.”**

**“We’ll find out, soon enough,” said Cooper.**

**“Yeah. I’m meeting him at a pub to talk over the case. He chose the location. Drake of Devonshire, it’s called. What kind of a name is that for a pub?”**

**“Alliterative.”**

**After a moment, he grudgingly smiled. “Point.”**

**“Have a good time, sir. Don’t get drunk.”**

**Doyle grunted, feeling in his pockets for his car keys. With any luck, they could get the briefing business done quickly and he could go home early. He didn’t expect such luck.**

**The Drake of Devonshire was neither crowded nor quiet. He did not at first see Bodie, so he went to the bar to pick up a drink, scanning heads for the close-cropped dark hair, trying to spot the wide shoulders of the CI5 agent.**

**It must have been that Bodie had walked into the pub right behind him, because he said at his elbow, “Hello, Doyle.”**

**Bodie had moved with an insidious silence. Feeling out-classed in the stealth department, and annoyed by the feeling, Doyle said, none too graciously, “Hello again.”**

**Bodie, in a better mood than when they’d had their last meeting, smiled affably and said, “First round on me.”**

**Fair enough. “Music to my ears,” said Doyle. Pointless to have a chip on his shoulder, when his problems weren’t Bodie’s fault. “I’ll get a table,” he said, and did so.**

**He sat with his back to the corner, looking over the crowd at the bar. In the mirrors behind the bartender he could see the faces, young and old, pretty and wizened, mixed sexes in varied attire. He could see Bodie standing in a brown leather jacket, weight on one leg, an elbow on the bar. The barmaid spoke to him. He said something in return, smiling as he handed her some money.**

**Doyle found himself relaxing.**

**This CI5 man had an interesting face. Expressive in a way he hadn’t quite noticed before. The tension he remembered was gone, or muted, which could easily be explained by circumstances. Anyone is likely to be tense when people are shooting with intent to kill.**

**The air of menace was gone too. This seemed an ordinary bloke in a pub, not someone you’d look at twice, particularly, unless you were inclined to like looking at dark-haired men with a self-assured manner and a good body.**

**Yes, definitely a good body, even under a coat that reached to the thigh. He was in good shape, Bodie. Would have to be, for CI5. He was taller than Doyle by two inches or so; Doyle had been remembering him as taller. Perhaps it was the stance, the posture, the self-assurance it implied. Bodie held himself like an ex-soldier, which would fit the profile as well. The vivid blue eyes, the quirky eyebrow, the humour about the mouth, fit no profile at all.**

**Smiling slightly, Doyle watched him come to the table with two pints of beer, and sit.**

**“Tell me about the case,” said Bodie.**

**Doyle liked it that he didn’t waste time. “This came in as a missing person case, called in by the wife, Paula Finlay. Nothing alarming about it on the face of it --the missus was upset, he hadn’t come home to her and the kiddies, but if he’d done a bunk it didn’t mean he was murdered and left to rot. His name is, or was, Gerald Finlay. He was a translator, specializing in obscure languages and ciphers. Clicking languages, American Native languages, dead languages, that sort of thing.”**

**“An academic?”**

**“Originally. Now working free-lance. Didn’t know a man could make a living that way, but by all accounts he was doing well. Maybe too well. Could have a few secret accounts here and there. Seemed stable enough, but you never know.**

**“Within twenty-four hours of the first call it was a different story. A few of Finlay’s employers took an interest. Military intelligence. Seems he’d been working on some top secret codes. It wasn’t long before MI6 wanted to talk to us, but they wouldn’t give any information. Turns out the man took some very select jobs and had a very high security clearance. He was working on something so sensitive they won’t tell us what it is. And it begins to seem likely that the Opposition, whoever the Opposition may be,  
snatched him for what he knows.” **

**“Is this information more likely to interest the KGB or the IRA? Terrorists or organised crime? Warlords or racketeers?”**

**“I expect you could learn more about that than I can,” said Doyle. He took another sip of the beer, noticing that Bodie had hardly touched his. He took a small notebook from out of his jacket pocket and tossed it across the table. “Here’s my notes so far. You have a photo?”**

**Bodie showed him the one furnished by Cowley. “This is recent.”**

**“Looks younger here.”**

**“He’s thirty-three.”**

**Doyle smiled. “Same as I am.”**

**Bodie glanced at him, and unexpectedly smiled back. He lifted his glass. “Cheers, then,” he said, and drank heartily.**

**“Another?” asked Doyle, who was beginning to enjoy the ambience and the company.**

**“Naw. Truth is, I have a date.”**

**“Ah, well. Don’t let me keep you from the really important things in life.”**

**“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Bodie quickly browsed the notes. “His home, his pub, his friends -hasn’t many, has he?”**

**“Stay-at-home type. Wasn’t sociable in university either. Got his first PhD at twenty-one, and his classmates barely remember him.”**

**“His wife?”**

**“Married right after university, at twenty-two. She was a beauty, but shy. Two kids, unremarkable, doing well in school.”**

**“You have any hunch who’s behind this, or why?”**

**“My first guess was that he’d run off with the local barmaid. After a bit I changed my guess. The big boys are just too interested. I suspect it’s organised crime.”**

**“Why not political terrorists, if he’s been working for the military?”**

**“Everyone has connections. If it’s weapons or information, the crime lords have as much interest as any terrorists would. No, I’d say it’s greed behind it. Might be an old-fashioned kidnapping, extortion. More likely they’re selling knowledge to the highest bidder. Money talks louder than politics, ninety per cent of the time.”**

**“And the other ten per cent?”**

**“The other ten per cent, it’s sex.”**

**“Don’t give much credit to political idealism, do you?”**

**“Naw. Politics is what moves nations, but sex and money come first for individuals.”**

**“I can’t disagree with that,” said Bodie agreeably. “So what about sex? Finlay have any girlfriends? Boyfriends?”**

**“Not that we’ve found. Remember, most of our information comes from the wife.”**

**“Always the last to know. Right.” He put the notes in his pocket. “See you in the morning, then.”**

**“Right.” Doyle stood. They shook hands. Bodie did not hesitate this time. Doyle watched him leave. Definitely a man in good physical condition. He had the legs of a runner. Doyle resolved to go running again tomorrow morning before their meeting. He hadn’t run for days. No use getting sedentary, slacking off. He’d show CI5 that a good copper can be their match any day.**

**He chuckled at his own foolishness as he finished the drink. Why compete with James bloody Bond? That wasn’t what life was about.**

**Still . . . didn’t want to be shown up by élite forces, did he?**

**The spirit of competition was strong in him. Bodie wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, once he lightened up: knew his job, anyway.**

**He might enjoy this case, after all.**

**Bodie ran in the fresh morning air of the embankment, going against the brisk July wind. It wasn’t raining, though the air was damp. He liked this time of day, as long as he had no hangover. In the hush after dawn, even London was quiet.**

**He’d gone over the information Doyle had handed him when he’d left Anita’s place at six a.m., leaving her sleeping in happy exhaustion. He sat in the car with Doyle’s sheaf of notes, going over every item and filing it in his mind, looking for patterns in a life. Patterns of need, or routine; opportunities of love and hate.**

**Except for his work, it seemed an unremarkable life that Finlay lived. He smoked; he drank, but not to excess; he gave to respectable charities and attended functions at his children’s schools. He had no arrests, no suspicious friends, no criminal relatives.**

**All he had was a knowledge of languages and codes, that made him useful to Intelligence.**

**Bodie cleared his head by running. He liked to run, liked the energy it gave him. It was easy to think while running. He could put things together in his head. He could think in peace, without interruption. He could outrun anyone who might claim his attention.**

**He thought about that moment at the house on Romany Road when, faced with death, he had faced his own loneliness.**

**Ridiculous. He had no reason to be lonely. There were women enough in his life --Anita was a delightful armful, and if she palled, there were any number of others. Sex was easy to come by, and company if he wanted it, in or out of bed, at the expense of a smile and some friendly talk. He had no reason to be alone unless he wanted to be. Often, he wanted to be.**

**He had the friendship, trust and respect of George Cowley, the finest man he ever knew. He had his partner Susan, as good a friend as he could imagine. What else could he want?**

**He knew what he wanted. It hit him like this sometimes. A lifetime of transience in relationships is not conducive to love.**

**Stupid romantic. He’d been in love before, and every time it had been a disaster. Regardless of nationality, race, even gender, every time he had fallen in love he had gone through hell. After Marikka, he had blockaded his feelings. Never again. Never another Marikka. Never again would he be so foolishly vulnerable. Might have lost his job because of her. Luckily, all he had lost had been his heart.**

**So now he wanted to be loved again?**

**No. It was easy to be loved, and like all easy things, that was meaningless. What he wanted was to love, another matter entirely.**

**Difficult to the point of impossibility. Every time he had loved in the past, it had torn his life apart. A man cannot love to order. He could not just say to himself, “Today I will fall deeply in love with Anita,” because he knew that, beautiful though she was, charming though she was, bright though she was, it simply was not going to happen.**

**He wanted, as he had always wanted, to be alone and to be allowed to live life on his own terms. He’d managed it, pretty well.**

**So why the sudden self-pity?**

**Childishness, that was all. He was willing to bet Ray Doyle didn’t have problems like this. Ray Doyle looked like the kind of man who knew what he wanted.**

**Bodie showered at CI5 and dashed over to Scotland Yard to meet Inspector Doyle right on time, parking with blatant irregularity if not illegality in the Chief’s spot.**

**There was no one in Doyle’s office but a slim dark-skinned woman, pulling paper out of a typewriter. “Inspector Doyle around?” Bodie asked, with the smile he reserved exclusively for beautiful women.**

**“He went for tea.” She stood. “Mr Bodie? I’m Sergeant Cooper.”**

**“Just call me Bodie,” said Bodie. They shook hands.**

**“Just call me Cooper,” she said.**

**Doyle appeared in the doorway, three mugs of tea held precariously in one hand. “Well, take them!” he said, leaning on the doorframe. They hastily did. Bodie sipped, with satisfaction; there’d been no time for coffee at Anita’s place. Doyle had guessed at milk and sugar, and plenty of it. The man was a saint. Bodie smiled at him.**

**“I see you two’ve met,” said Doyle. He closed the door behind him with his free hand, and leaned against it. His office, crammed as it was with papers and books, had nothing out of the ordinary about it, but it somehow seemed less drab for Bodie’s presence.**

**“Been thinking.” Doyle put down his cup. “Finlay was last seen leaving work on the tenth, Thursday last. Told his wife he’d be home on time, but he wasn’t. If we check the pubs and shops between his office and home, someone might recall seeing him.”**

**“He was working at the Air Force base,” said Bodie thoughtfully. “Usually only went to one pub, but what’s to say he didn’t try another?”**

**“Your job, Cooper,” said Doyle.**

**“Thought I’d see what I could learn from MI6,” said Bodie.**

**“Got an in there, have you?” asked Doyle hopefully. “Intelligence agencies stick together, one for all and all for one?”**

**“Hardly. More likely they’d shoot me on sight, but there’s a person or two there owes me a favour. It’s worth a try.”**

**“Women?” suggested Cooper. Bodie flashed her a smile, and didn’t answer.**

**“And the Air Force?” asked Doyle.**

**“I have a few acquaintances. Contacts. I’ll check that out, too.” Bodie looked at his watch. “Shall we meet at the pub for lunch? Twelve noon.”**

**“Right. I’ll talk to Mrs Finlay, the neighbours, see if I can find any sightings of his car in the vicinity.”**

**As Doyle was leaving the building with Sergeant Cooper, she murmured to him, “Not bad, for a Secret Service type.”**

**He looked at her in surprise, pretending to be shocked. “Is that admiration I hear in your voice? Just because he has beautiful blue eyes? Whatever would your husband think?”**

**“And a stunning smile. Don’t forget the smile. What Martin doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him,” said Cooper firmly. “A woman can look.”**

**“Behave yourself,” he said, getting into his car. She laughed.**

**He noticed that Bodie was driving a Ford Capri. He wondered if it had modifications, like advanced weaponry and hidden pontoons. He smiled at the notion. He’d seen too many movies, that was the problem.**

****two** **

**Bodie’s contact at the Air Force base was not a woman, but a man he’d known when he was in the forces; they’d been stationed in Jordan at the same time. Nigel Palmer had been in a bad corner, and Bodie had helped him out. Bodie’s name alone was enough to get him ushered into Colonel Palmer’s office without delay.**

**Palmer stood, shaking his hand. “Bodie --how’s the fate of the free world?”**

**“Expensive,” said Bodie. “They put me on the Finlay case.”**

**Palmer motioned for Bodie to sit. “Good man, Finlay. Quiet, reliable. Tended to get excited about diphthongs and declensions, but he has a skill for making and cracking codes like no one else I ever met.”**

**“What kind of codes?” asked Bodie.**

**“Any codes. All codes. You name it.”**

**“What was he working on?”**

**“Can’t tell you that, Bodie.”**

**“It was worth a try,” said Bodie. “Does the Air Force want him found?”**

**“God, yes.” Palmer looked out the window, on a damp car park. “Is this off the record?”**

**“It’s part of my case,” said Bodie. “It’s between you and me. But I warn you, I’ll use whatever I get.”**

**“Fair enough. Yes, the Air Force wants him found, especially the higher echelons. I think he was working on something very important. So important that those who snatched him probably don’t have the faintest idea.”**

**“You think he was snatched?”**

**“Who knows? I’d be surprised if he ran or turned, but people do it. Pressures get too great, maybe the wife is jealous or spends too much, maybe he’s just bored at home. Maybe someone offered him something he couldn’t resist.”**

**“Or maybe he was grabbed?”**

**“That would be my guess.”**

**“Why?”**

**“Because whatever the project was he was working on, he was the odd man out. Not military, not an engineer. I think they went for the man they perceived as the weakest link in the chain.”**

**“And was he?”**

**“He’s gone, isn’t he?”**

**Armed with photographs of Finlay and of Finlay’s car, Bodie made the rounds. The man who had been working security at the outer gate remembered that he had gone through on the day he had disappeared, on Thursday. Though, as he pointed out, no one had known he was going to disappear. “Otherwise I’d’ve taken more notice.”**

**They were standing in the cafeteria where the guardsman, Rob King, was getting an early lunch. Bodie looked disdainfully at the anonymous stew and sloppy lasagna. He had few good memories of military food.**

**“You sure it was Finlay driving?”**

**“Course I’m sure. Who else would it be? Recognised his spectacles.”**

**“You talking about Finlay?” asked a soldier further back in line. “I saw his car on the road that same day.”**

**“Later on?” asked Bodie.**

**“About seven o’clock. No later. Out by Fenwick Place. He’d stopped for a red light.”**

**“Was he alone?”**

**“No, couple of people with him, I think.”**

**Bodie smiled.**

**He smiled again when he told Doyle about it over lunch in the pub. “Fenwick Place,” he said. “Not on his route home, though not far off it, and not so far a drive from the air base.”**

**“Let’s have a look,” said Doyle.**

**The car had been going east. “Could be anywhere,” said Doyle, looking out the window for a red Volvo, as Bodie drove. Bodie drove with a sure hand, a little too fast, without much consideration for the vehicle but with a fine awareness of the road. Doyle watched the way his hands held the steering wheel, noting the strength and dexterity of the long fingers.**

**“Heading east,” said Bodie. “What’s eastward of here?”**

**“Dragons,” said Doyle gloomily. He was looking at the map. “Warehouses, mostly. Industrial wasteland. An operational factory, storage.”**

**“Worth a look,” said Bodie.**

**“You think so?” Doyle looked at the unprepossessing scenery. “Looks like a waste of time, to me.”**

**“Bet you a quid we find something,” said Bodie.**

**Doyle turned to him suspiciously. “You having me on? Do you know something?”**

**Bodie said, “I’ve been here before. Some of these places are legit, but some have been used for illegal purposes --weapons stashing, counterfeit monies, drugs on the move. Why not a kidnapping?”**

**Doyle was about to make a sarcastic reply when he saw the red Volvo. Bodie stopped the car so fast the tires screeched.**

**“Found it!” he said, and grinned like a boy.**

**Doyle jumped out of the car and ran to it. Bodie followed.**

**At a quick glance, there was no sign of violence. There were no obvious bloodstains, no cracked windows or bullet holes. “Maybe he met someone here,” said Bodie.**

**“Or maybe he’s in there.” Doyle jerked his head towards the building behind them.**

**“Let’s have a look, then,” said Bodie. He took out his r/t, a handy item that Doyle coveted fiercely. “3.7 to base. Get forensics out to Fenwick Road to examine an abandoned car, Red Volvo, DJX 803J. Belongs to missing person Gerald Finlay. Right.” He dropped it back in his pocket. “After you,” he said, with a gesture.**

**So Doyle preceded Bodie into the warehouse.**

**In Angola, Bodie had a reputation for luck. Mostly it was because he knew how to be alert, but sometimes he was able to bank on hunches --yes, lucky hunches. He knew when to rely on speed and when to rely on his senses, and how to combine the two.**

**He had the feeling something was about to change. Perhaps they were about to find Finlay, alive or dead. No sense speculating, but it was with a surge of optimism that Bodie headed to the door of the warehouse, behind Doyle.**

**Crossing the tarmac at a run, Bodie noticed with approval the way the copper ran, smooth and light, without obvious effort. Most policemen he’d known had been clodhoppers, either too young to know what they were doing, or going to seed and not caring. Doyle cared. Surprising that he’d lasted this long in a profession where caring by Bodie’s reckoning was a liability and expertise a rarity.**

**The small entrance door was unlocked. Bodie drew his gun, and kicked the door in.**

**It opened with a heavy boom, and a swirl of dust. There was no response.**

**“Police!” shouted Doyle. “Is there anyone here?”**

**No answer, not even the flutter of pigeons.**

**“Better search,” said Bodie, sheathing his gun. Doyle nodded.**

**Their footsteps were hollow on the concrete floor. The building was dark, dim upper windows too dirty to allow visibility to anything but bats.**

**Doyle checked the side of the door, switched on the lights.**

**The room, a large one, was full of crates six feet square. Otherwise, the hallmark of the place was silence.**

**They walked through the building, alert for attack, finding the place deserted.**

**“Wonder what’s in the crates,” said Bodie, pulling at the corner of one. It didn’t give. He tried to pry it with his hands.**

**“Oy, mate, watch it,” said Doyle. “These belong to someone.”**

**“I’m not stealing,” said Bodie. “Just looking.”**

**“If you’re looking,” said Doyle, wandering, “come and look at this.”**

**It was one of the crates with its side open, like a door. Inside there was sign of habitation --a shoe, handcuffs hanging from a staple in the wood, a smear of what could be blood.**

**“Hell,” said Bodie. “Finlay was here, and not voluntarily.”**

**“We aren’t dealing with a runaway,” said Doyle grimly. “Confirmation, Bodie, that’s what we’ve  
got. Bet you that’s Finlay’s blood.” **

**Without answering, Bodie struck the crate next to him, a move taught to him by Shusai. The board came loose and he pulled it away, and pulled a box out of the crate. It was labelled with a number.**

**“Weapons?” guessed Doyle. “Drugs?”**

**Bodie opened the box. It was full of smaller packets, wrapped in clear plastic. He pulled out two, and read the label. “Hosiery. Women’s size 5. Reinforced toe.”**

**“Pretty sinister,” said Doyle. He was grinning.**

**“Bloody hell, mate, are we dealing with a pack of kidnapping ladies’ tights manufacturers?”**

**“There’s a raging black market, I hear.”**

**“And what,” demanded Bodie, “do ladies’ tights have to do with ciphers, top secret documents, and linguistics experts?”**

**“Maybe the kidnappers are women.”**

**“Or drag queens.”**

**“Or killers.”**

**They sobered, thinking of Finlay.**

**As trails went, it may have led nowhere, but the sense of direction it gave them made Bodie and Doyle into a team. They knew they had a concrete case, with a victim. They now had a distinct purpose: to find him, to save him.**

**Forensics confirmed that Finlay had been in the crate, and in the car. Blood in each location was the same type as his.**

**The question was, where was he now?**

**That was their progress for the day. The trail had led to a full stop, but at least there was a trail.**

**Bodie and Doyle went to the pub, and tossed around ideas which led back to where they started. “Bugger of a case,” said Bodie. “Abduction.”**

**“Aren’t they all?”**

**“Often enough.”**

**“Worse when it’s children.”**

**“Don’t get many kids with CI5 work, thank God. Sometimes.”**

**A cheer went up in the corner of the room, where a mixed group was watching a television. “Liverpool’s ahead,” said Doyle gloomily.**

**“That’s good!”**

**“No, mate, I’m a Derby man.”**

**As they discussed their favourite players, they began to forget themselves, falling into random conversation as they might with old friends, somehow getting onto the topic of books they had read lately, and what they had thought of them. Movies they’d liked, actors, actresses. Music.**

**Bodie finished his drink. “Another round?” He was supposed to be at Anita’s place in less than five minutes. He didn’t feel inclined. He was enjoying himself more here in the pub with Doyle. The affair with Anita was getting stale, in any case, and she was taking him for granted, which annoyed him.**

**Doyle looked at his watch. “No, I should be on my way.” He grinned. “See you in the morning, Bond.”**

**“Bond?”**

**“James Bond.”**

**“Oh, go on,” said Bodie, but he wasn’t displeased.**

**The next morning, Bodie thought about Doyle as he was running in the misty dawn light along the embankment.**

**He’d known this feeling before, this rush of excitement at the beginning of a friendship. It was almost like being in love. With a woman, it was a heady infatuation that usually led to a passionate affair, burning itself out rapidly, but always thrilling in its early stages. With a man --well, it was a while since he’d let anything with a man go beyond simple friendship, but even so, some friendships were more significant than others. He got a charge out of Doyle’s company. Good with a joke, fast-thinking, fast-moving. Doyle would make a fine CI5 agent, and would probably slug Bodie for thinking that. He would not consider it a compliment.**

**Bodie was a man with many friends. As a mercenary in Africa, as a British soldier, as a sports lover, and as an agent of CI5, he had an easy, friendly way about him that charmed even the cynics and the hard cases, when he set his mind to it.**

**So he need not be alone, unless he wanted to be. The charm that brought women to his bed with gratifying frequency, or caused acquaintances to invite him to the local for a pint, or made him the first to be asked to everyone’s parties, could just as easily be turned off, leaving him aloof, distant and cold. Inside Bodie the ripping good fellow was a Bodie no one knew.**

**His parents had died when he was still in his teens, leaving him alone in the world. He had neither brothers nor sisters. His grandparents by then were already dead, and the only remaining cousins were people he did not know and did not want to meet. If he felt the lack of family, he never showed it. When he was six years old, a teacher had written on his report: “Bodie is clever and can learn anything he sets his mind to.” So he had learned to do without his parents; without anyone.**

**In CI5, he was close only to his partner, Susan, and even she knew only the Bodie he let her see.  
Love, when he had felt it, had been deep, disastrous and fatal. Each time, he had survived while the one he loved died suddenly by violence. Twice he had watched while his lover was shot before his eyes, wishing each time it could have been himself instead. **

**Each time he had rebuilt his life --reluctantly at first, desperately, then coming to accept the responsibilities of survival. The memories were painful still. A young African woman, shot in the head, her beauty taken with her life. A man from Newcastle, brave as the wind, drowning far from home, his body deep in the Hellespont. Marikka, her life taken by the uncaring husband she had so coldly married.**

**The resulting feelings left Bodie emotionally scarred and sceptical of romance. “Not the marrying kind,” he described himself airily, without explaining what that might mean. Or: “Married to my job,” which was as true as it needed to be. He never let a girl get close, except physically. The needs of his job were such that the women usually drifted away after a series of broken dates, lovemaking interrupted by the telephone, and Bodie’s casual disregard for the convenience of anyone but himself and CI5.**

**Underneath the good-natured cricket player and the hero of CI5 was a loner whom no one knew, because he wanted no one to know him. He wanted the safe distance that could foster life’s pleasures, but not the torment that attachment brought.**

**Something had changed, but he was not sure what it was, or why it had happened. That moment of self-awareness had caused an awakening of the heart. He could not think why, or what it meant.**

**Sometimes, he reflected, life can bring the unexpected. Sometimes, what he needed was not what he thought he wanted.**

**He paused in the running, stretched his legs, stopped to listen to the lapping water of the Thames.**

**Some friendships had made a profound impact on his life. There was Marty, from merc days, whom he was still in contact with. Keith Williams, from the Paras. Murphy, from CI5, and McCabe too. Susan, if she counted; a partner was more than a friend, and she’d been, for a bit, even more than that. They made better friends than lovers and had the sense to realise it, but there had been a few vivid, memorable nights while they learned the lesson.**

**Then there was George Cowley.**

**The Controller of CI5 was a special case in Bodie’s life in every way there was. He had influenced Bodie more than any other person, including his mother and father. Sometimes Bodie resented his influence, but he never ceased to admire the man and respect him. His employer, his boss, his superior, his mentor, his --yes, his friend, when push came to shove. He was Cowley’s pawn and they both knew it, just as they understood the price each paid for the sake of CI5. The cost of public peace and security was private turmoil and pain, always with the backdrop of loneliness.**

**They knew it, lived with it. It was a pact that set them apart from the rest of humanity. Bodie was  
under no illusion. If it suited the purposes of CI5 to send him to his death, Cowley would do it without blinking an eye, and sorrow genuinely for him afterwards. **

**What he felt for George Cowley could fairly be called love, in a form unique in his experience. There was nothing erotic about it. It was tied up with his feelings of patriotism, justice, responsibility and morality.**

**His liking for Inspector Ray Doyle was in some ways similar, but not, he had to admit, nearly so pure.**

**He started to run again. The breeze was refreshing against his sweating face. Mist rose from the Thames in uneven patches. People on boats were beginning to stir.**

**What attracted him to Doyle was the striking personality, a down-to-earth realism tied to a good imagination and appreciation of the ridiculous. He’d seen that already, after two days of working with him. Practical, a good cop; and he moved like a dream. A martial arts master such as Bodie was striving to become.**

**In motion, Doyle was a pleasure to watch.**

**When still, he posed, unconsciously, like a model in a sex mag. Bodie could not help but notice. Neither could he help remembering that when he was in bed with Anita. He had managed to liven things up with a few memories of Doyle’s cheeky smile, and memories of the way Doyle moved in those tight jeans, so tight it was a wonder he could move at all, let alone move with the grace of a dancer and the speed of an athlete.**

**That alone had been enough to get him going, and Anita enjoyed the results. After she was asleep, he used the privacy to follow his thoughts further along routes no one need know. In the seclusion of his own thoughts, he could pretend that smile of Doyle’s was for him alone. He could imagine those expressive green eyes full of personal fire as they met his, and those muscular hands touching him with lustful intent, while that physical body responded to his touch.**

**His dreams had been warmly sensuous, with images of auburn curly hair and that lean body. That wicked laugh.**

**Because of the dreams, he woke up in a good mood, though Anita had been grumbling because of the ridiculous hour at which he got up to shave. Trained to early hours in the military, he had no problem in rising before dawn on a brisk morning when he had no hangover and was playing with enticing thoughts. He remained in a good mood as he ran in the growing light, not knowing what the day would bring, hoping for leads on the Finlay case, looking forward to the easy working relationship he and Doyle had so effortlessly created.**

**He wondered what Doyle would think if he knew the nature of Bodie’s thoughts about him, or if he knew the warmth with which he was thinking them. Shock? Anger? Pleasure? He could not guess. It hardly mattered. A casual friendship such as they had now was all he needed, more than he asked of life.**

**The sun, burning through the morning mist, seemed uncommonly friendly.**

**A truck was coming up behind him, slowing as it came near. Since there was no traffic, since he was on the pavement not the road, since there was no reason for it to approach him, he had warning enough when five men dropped out of the truck and attacked him. He was ready and able to fight back.**

**But his gun was in his back-pack and he was in trainers. He was outnumbered five to one, and in a poor defensive position. He should, perhaps, have jumped in the Thames rather than fight, but he had thought at first they might have guns, and could shoot him in the water. As it was, he couldn’t get away as they beat him with something heavy --a baseball bat, he caught a glimpse of it --and kicked him with heavy boots, over and over. The blows landed on his back, on his ribs, on his legs. Someone said, “Get off the Finlay case. Drop it. Stay on it, you’re dead.” The instruction was hammered home with more blows.**

**He tried to protect his head. He tripped one of them, kicked another in the crotch as he moved forward.**

**It wasn’t enough. Another of them managed to kick him in the balls and he blacked out.**

**The mist, the dark one inside his head, cleared. He heard shouts, through the ringing in his ears. He heard the truck moving, and realised the blows had stopped. A voice said, “Are you all right?”**

**“No,” he said, and his lips were stiff. He made out a face, and another one beside it, as his vision cleared. A stranger in a bowler hat was leaning over him. “Call the police. Inspector Doyle. CID.”**

**Someone took his back pack and put it gently under his head. That made things a little more comfortable. After a while he was able to sit up, check for serious injury. His face was more or less all right, except for a split lip. He’d have bruises, but he’d had worse. No real injury this time, then. Nothing broken. Good.**

**Nevertheless it felt like a long time before the police car arrived, siren blaring, and Doyle hopped out. “You’re a sight!” he said unflatteringly. So much for Bodie’s hope that Doyle liked the way he looked. He found himself grinning, despite the pain of his lip, he felt so happy to see that lopsided face with the clownish hair and the brilliant eyes.**

**“M’mother thought I was a beauty,” argued Bodie, letting Doyle pull him up.**

**“You’re a beauty all right, mate. Dunno why they let you out in daylight.” He got into the car, and Bodie nodded at Cooper, who was speaking to the helpful bystanders, taking a few notes. When she stopped, she came and sat in the back seat. Bodie sat in the front, beside Doyle.**

**“Why’d they do it?” asked Doyle. Cooper handed him a note, and he read it into the radio, for a report on the licence number.**

**“Wanted to warn me off the case. ‘Stay on it, you’re dead’, they said.”**

**“Fuck,” said Doyle, with feeling, and the radio bleeped. “Doyle.” He listened. “Right.” He said to Bodie and Cooper, “The truck was stolen three hours ago from a lay-by near Oxford.”**

**“I got a look at them, for what it’s worth. They probably don’t know much. Probably thugs for hire who were just told to batter me, told what to say.”**

**“Yeah.” Doyle started to drive. “You need a shower.”**

**“Was planning to shower at CI5. Drive me there, you can wait a few minutes.”**

**“Yeah? Thought they didn’t allow the working class in.”**

**“Only so far,” said Bodie. “We wouldn’t want you to see our illegal torture chambers and high-tech weaponry.”**

**Doyle’s smile had an edge to it. “Wish I knew whether that was true.”**

**“Naw. It’s only a joke.”**

**“That frightens me,” said Doyle.**

**\- - -**

**The hot water of the CI5 shower felt good on his skin, washing away the grime, sweat and blood, if not the pain. There was no damage done that a few days’ time would not heal. And the pleasure of seeing Doyle again . . . .**

**He held his face to the water, letting it pour over him. He was mad. He was stark raving ready for the lock-up, the way he was reacting to Doyle, who was probably straight and uninterested and no doubt otherwise engaged in any case. No man with his personality would go unchosen for long.**

**Still, he intended to enjoy the pleasure of his company for as long as possible. Beyond that, who knew what possibilities might arise?**

**Dry, clean, and reasonably presentable, he came face to face with Cowley in the Controller’s office. “Progress to report?” asked the Controller sharply, and Bodie said, “Not yet, sir.” He didn’t want to explain about his beating, which would merely cause an unnecessary delay in visiting the CI5 doctor, who would tell him he would hurt like hell for a few days but would get over it.**

**But Cowley had been talking to Doyle. “I hear the opposition tried to discourage you, 3.7.”**

**“Yes, sir.”**

**“Be more careful next time.” The Cow must be feeling unusually mellow.**

**“Yes, sir.”**

**“I want a full report in my office at six p.m., and you with it.”**

**“Yes, sir.”**

**“And Bodie?”**

**Bodie was halfway through the doors. “Sir?”**

**“Until this is over, don’t run alone.”**

**“Yes, sir.”**

**After a long day pursuing leads, talking to informers, and examining the forensic evidence, Bodie made a complete report to Cowley at six o’clock.**

**Cowley was impatient with their lack of progress. He wanted faster results. “The man Finlay is in their custody,” he snapped. “Every hour’s delay is time they have to work on him, to get the information he has in his head.”**

**“You know what it is?”**

**“Aye, lad, and if he reveals it, things will be very bad. Very bad indeed. His information must not be known. This is a nasty business.”**

**Bodie understood an unspoken subtext here: find him, and if you can’t get him away, kill him. He had no intention of doing so. He wanted to save the man, more than ever. After this morning, they had the same enemies.**

**Afterwards, he met Doyle in the pub. “Something to drown m’ sorrows,” he said, sinking into a bench. “That’s what I need.”**

**“You need a bodyguard, that’s what you need,” said Doyle. He was leaning casually against the back of the padded bench, relaxed, his jacket thrown over the back of the chair. His shirt fit him tightly, in a way that Bodie found most attractive. A hint of body hair showed at the loosened buttons at his neck. His hands held the pint with firm, tapering fingers. Bodie liked the look of those strong hands. He felt himself relaxing thoroughly, smiling with the pleasure of it, and he’d hardly sipped his drink yet. Sometimes visual pleasures were the best kind.**

**“I am a bodyguard.”**

**“Doin’ a bad job of it, aren’t you, then? When it comes to yourself.”**

**“So? I’ll run somewhere else tomorrow.”**

**“Doesn’t matter where you run. They found you today, they can find you tomorrow.”**

**“You think I should go to a gym? Or not work out at all?”**

**“Oh no, no, no, mate, we’re not going to let you make excuses for a holiday. Your Major Cowley wouldn’t let either of us get away with that. No, I’m running with you.”**

**“You are?”**

**“Why not? I run. You run. We might as well run together.”**

**“We forming a new constituency?”**

**Doyle laughed on a mouthful of beer, and had to wipe his mouth with an insufficient paper napkin. “You bastard. So, when shall I meet you? You start out at your place?”**

**Bodie didn’t feel like explaining about Anita, who felt like past history anyway, even if she didn’t know it yet. “Yeah. Six a.m. all right with you?”**

**“It is now. Tomorrow morning it won’t be, but I’ll manage. Right then, meet you at six at your  
flat.” **

**“I can offer breakfast afterwards,” said Bodie.**

**Bodie was ready earlier than he needed to be, and Doyle was spot on time, leaning on the doorbell, slack-eyed and unshaven. When Bodie opened the door Doyle said, “CI5 men are inhuman monsters of the lowest order. I always suspected it. Now I know.” He dumped his small carry-all in Bodie’s vestibule, where it thumped as it hit the floor.**

**Bodie bounced on the balls of his feet in his supple trainers. “Rubbish, mate, this is the best part of the day.”**

**Doyle responded by groaning and sinking slowly down the doorpost to the floor. “I’ll be ready,” he muttered, “soon’s I’ve had my morning nap.”**

**“Up and at ’em, sunshine.” Bodie reached under Doyle’s arms and lifted him to his feet in one fluid motion. “One leg after the other, you’ll get the hang of it. Are all coppers this soft?”**

**“Not soft,” said Doyle. “Just stupefied.” But he grinned, and suddenly made a run for it. He dodged down the stairs and along the pavement, long legs stretching as if neither gravity nor human limitations could hold him back. He was faster than Bodie. Following behind, Bodie enjoyed the challenge as much as he enjoyed the sight of that trim, muscular arse in the running togs. It made the running easy. He thought happily that he could follow that backside anywhere.**

**They did a five-mile loop, and went back to Bodie’s flat. Doyle was fast, but Bodie’s stamina was greater; he was catching up after a mile, and they ran together for a while, before Bodie pulled ahead when Doyle stopped for a breather. Then Doyle caught up again.**

**Bodie loved the feel of it, the way his lungs expanded, the way his bruises lost their power to hurt as the blood flowed through the limbs, the way Doyle was there, with him, sharing this magnificent physical experience that was liberating and challenging at the same time.**

**“You practise this sado-masochism on a daily basis?” Doyle asked, panting, as Bodie opened the  
door to his flat. **

**“What, don’t you?”**

**“Naw. Usually I have better things to do.”**

**“Like what?”**

**Bodie half hoped for a risqué answer, but Doyle said succinctly, “Sleep.”**

**“Oh. That.” He wandered into the kitchen. “You shower first. I’ll get breakfast together.”**

**“Okay.”**

**“Least nothing happened today.”**

**“Because I was there.”**

**“Stay around then, mate. I like it better that way.”**

**Doyle paused, looking into the white-tiled kitchen. Then came the broad, dimpled grin. “Me too,” he said, and headed for the shower.**

**Bodie took the rest of the eggs out of the carton, feeling uncommonly pleased with life. No reason to think Doyle meant anything by the comment, or the smile, or the jaunty way he had moved. That didn’t stop his own response from reverberating through his entire body. He hummed a little as he worked on breakfast: only the best for Doyle. Omelette, one of his few genuine culinary achievements, impressed birds no end, and with any luck Doyle would be impressible too. When he made an omelette for breakfast, it was parsley or tomatoes he threw in. When he made it for supper, it was cayenne or curry. Worked like a charm.**

**He made fresh orange juice, something he hadn’t done since Christmas, and they were halfway through July. He fried some bread and found some scones in the refrigerator that weren’t too old, not enough to be hard yet. Jam. Strawberry? Gooseberry? He put both on the table. The coffee was ready by then, fresh perked not instant, and he was feeling pretty hungry, himself. He whistled a little as he got it all together. He was ready for food as well.**

**He could hear the water of the shower, running. He could imagine Doyle under the cool spray, letting the water run all over his lithe body. Just as Bodie’s hands would like to do.**

**He was putting fresh milk on the table and hunting for the good silverware when he heard the shower turn off. Only too easy to imagine how Doyle must look, towelling himself off, shaving in the mirror, combing his wild curls. He enjoyed the thought of Doyle at those mundane, intimate tasks. He wondered if he’d wear a towel around his waist, or stand naked at the mirror, or perhaps get dressed first. Perhaps he would borrow Bodie’s dressing gown, which had been left on the hook on the back of the door. Bodie hoped he would. He liked the idea of Doyle wearing something of his, and something intimate at that.**

**Doyle appeared in the doorway, fully dressed. “Your turn at the watering hole.”**

**“Thanks, mate. Breakfast is ready.”**

**Doyle came in. “Smells . . . interesting. Eggs?”**

**“Omelette avec des champignons et persil.”**

**“Champignons I know, but what’s persil?”**

**“Parsley.”**

**Doyle looked in consternation at the frying pan. “You invite someone else?”**

**“Just us. Why?”**

**“It’s enough for all my friends and relatives and your CI5 mob thrown in.”**

**“Only six eggs.” Bodie began dividing them with the spatula in the pan, to put them neatly on the plates. The secret of a good omelette was in its presentation, not its cooking. Folded just so, with the sprig of parsley on top.**

**“For two of us? And fried toast --too much cholesterol for me, mate. Here, let me serve myself.”  
Doyle took the plate out of Bodie’s hand, and spooned out a modest corner of the omelette. “Don’t you have corn flakes?” **

**“Corn flakes?” said Bodie. “What would I be doing with corn flakes?”**

**“Eating them. With low-fat milk. Good for you. Muesli, granola, they’re better.”**

**“Horse food,” said Bodie.**

**“No, I’m telling you, you’ll die of a heart attack before you’re forty.”**

**“Decided long ago I’d rather die of a heart attack than starvation.” Bodie deftly used the frying pan to toss the rest of the omelette onto his plate. He took all the toast and put butter defiantly on his warmed-up scone. It seemed less stale that way. On top of the melting butter, he put a generous spoonful of strawberry jelly.**

**“You’ll kill yourself, Bodie. Sugar on top of animal fats. My God.”**

**“Don’t count on it. This fuels me.” He munched happily on the scone. “Really, it does. Helps me survive attacks like yesterday’s. Keeps my muscles in trim, along with a little exercise.”**

**“Trim? It’s a wonder you’re not obese.”**

**“And no wonder you’ve got the kind of body that launches ships.”**

**Doyle raised his eyebrows, but it was not an indication of offense. “Thanks for the vote of  
confidence, but I know I’m healthy.” **

**“Working on wealthy and wise?”**

**Doyle chuckled. “I’m working on beautiful and solvent. First things first.”**

**“Two out of three isn’t bad,” said Bodie. He was not usually so bold, but Doyle didn’t seem to mind a little flirting.**

**“Dare I ask which two? No, I don’t. Don’t want to talk about my level of debt. And you have the monopoly here on beautiful.”**

**“Eh?” said Bodie, taken by surprise. The tables had turned. He was dumbfounded.**

**Doyle simply said, “Well, aren’t you going to wash so we can get to work? Or are you going to eat all morning?”**

**“I dunno,” said Bodie. “Is that an either/or choice? Like, would I prefer a rotten tomato between the eyes, or Swiss chocolate and champagne? Am I sane? Am I human?”**

**“We haven’t established either of those points yet,” said Doyle dryly.**

**Laughing, Bodie went into the bathroom.**

**When he emerged from the tub, he combed his hair and examined his bruises in the mirror. As he had predicted, they were not deep, and they were fading fast, leaving mottled yellow and purple patches that would disappear soon enough. There was a rather vicious scab on his left hip, but it looked worse than it felt, and his balls were merely tender. He healed quickly, which was just as well.**

**With his towel wrapped around his waist as a gesture to reluctant decency, he went to the bedroom. As he crossed the hallway, Doyle, in the sitting room, looked up from the magazine he’d found to read.**

**That was all he did. He looked at Bodie. Just looked, his expression enigmatic. Bodie in turn stopped, and returned stare for stare, looking right into those remarkable green eyes.**

**Eyes like none he had ever seen. The whole world was in those eyes.**

**He longed to explore what lay behind them, to know, to truly know, this man. He wanted to share the quick mind and the enticing body. He wanted to make love to him slowly, thoroughly, entirely. He wanted to hear what he thought and what he felt, about life and love and Bodie. He wanted to know what turned him on and why, and to explore it with him. Intimacy, in every way. He wanted Ray Doyle, through and through.**

**Wanted him so much he could taste it.**

**Caught up in the velvet green stare, he found his breath short, his mind short-circuited, his heart melting and his cock stirring.**

**Dangerous, this. Bodie had masqueraded as a killer for hire, as a gambler, as a thief, as a priest, as a gigolo, as a doctor, as a gangster. In the course of time with CI5 he had passed himself off as many things to many people.**

**And here, with Ray Doyle, he was transparent as glass, and helpless with it, and loving it.**

**Doyle turned away, tossing the magazine aside, breaking the eye contact as casually as breathing, yet it was something Bodie could not have done. “Better hurry up,” he said. “I phoned Cooper while you were in the bath. She said she found a lead on the stolen van.”**

**Bodie took a deep breath and went into the bedroom, reaching his clothes out of the wardrobe, willing his heart to stop pounding. He felt he had narrowly escaped something, but he could not be glad of it. He willed his hands to stillness, forced his body to let go of the sexual tension.**

**However casual he had sounded, Bodie knew Doyle had felt something too, an electrical thrill that had mesmerized them both. Clearly he was not ready to acknowledge it. But he had said, “You have the monopoly here on ‘beautiful’.”**

**Bodie smiled as he started to dress.**

**The warehouse’s owner had a string of such places, and they had to search every one. It was tedious, methodical, dangerous work. They went through three warehouses thoroughly in two hours, finding nothing suspicious.**

**The fourth location was different.**

**\- - -**

**The warehouse itself was much like the others, a large space with crates, although this particular building looked as if it had seen better days. It might have been a dance hall or a theatre once, with an ornate ceiling and high arched windows. There was a second level mezzanine, with doors leading from it, spooky and dark where once chandeliers had sparkled. The place was a drab remnant of its own past, probably due in another few years to be fodder for the wrecking ball.**

**It was Doyle who found the bloodstains on the floor. “Hey, look here,” he said. “Someone’s been enjoying themselves.”**

**Signs of a scuffle. “Better get the boys out,” said Bodie.**

**“Yeah,” said Doyle, and they both heard something. Footsteps.**

**Their guns were out. They looked up at the mezzanine walkway above them, with the doors to a second floor. The footsteps had come from that direction. Bodie and Doyle ran up the stairs, guns at the ready, their footsteps unconsciously synchronized.**

**No one shot at them, or ambushed them.**

**They approached the closed door at the end of the walkway. Doyle nodded to Bodie, who pushed it open. It was unlocked, smooth on its hinges, recently used.**

**They went into a cavernous darkened room.**

**There were crates and dark shapes behind which a man could hide. Bodie said in a low voice, “You go right, I’ll go left. Meet you across the room.”**

**Doyle nodded. They moved on quiet rubber soles, alert with ears as much as with eyes. Something fell, at a distance, echoing; impossible to determine where it was. Bodie found a door, opened it with gun pointed, ready to jump or fire.**

**Nothing there. An empty WC, the plumbing long since dismantled.**

**He rounded the corner and Doyle backed into him. He froze. Bodie put a hand on his shoulder and said in a low voice, “It’s just me.”**

**Doyle did not move. Bodie expected him to step away, to step forward, but he did not. Doyle lowered his gun.**

**They stood with their bodies almost touching, so that he could smell Doyle’s sexy body and feel his own blood heat. Doyle had called him beautiful. Was he teasing mindlessly? Or was the comment sparked by something deeper, something more honest, that he had not entirely spoken aloud?**

**As close to Doyle as this, feeling the warmth of his body, Bodie could not stop his mind from racing.**

**Bodie’s hand rested on Doyle’s shoulder, keeping their bodies together. Doyle made no movement that would separate them. On the contrary, he seemed to relax more closely, as if inciting touch.**

**Since Doyle’s head was close to his in front of him, he bent his head the few necessary inches to touch his lips to Doyle’s nape, making the kiss a lingering caress. He felt the soft curling hair against his face as he nuzzled and kissed the soft skin where the hairline met the back of Doyle’s neck. Doyle smelled like Bodie’s own shampoo, and like spring air, and like himself. Bodie let his breath run softly out against the skin of Doyle’s neck, savouring the taste and feel of him.**

**Doyle filled his senses, making his heart pound.**

**Doyle did not push him back, or speak, or step away. Instead he relaxed, leaning infinitesimally closer against Bodie, moving slightly so their bodies were in contact length to length. Bodie relished the embrace, the heat of his skin, the power of the muscles and sinews so close against him, pressed lightly to his own body.**

**Bodie moved his left hand down from the shoulder, across Doyle’s muscular chest. A nipple was hard under his palm and he paused at it. He rubbed it slightly with his fingertips, feeling it coalesce and swell in instant response. He felt the reaction echoed within himself.**

**Bodie’s senses were tuned to maximum, his energy high, his mind spinning out of control. For too long he had been blind and deaf and armoured against such moments as this. Now the impulse filled him and overtook him and he accepted the risk and the vulnerability. He abandoned himself to it, feeling the sensuous joy, embracing it as he embraced Doyle. This, this, was what he wanted, this man in his arms.**

**He put his gun in his waistband, and moved his hand across Doyle’s chest and abdomen. He brushed Doyle’s crotch lightly with his fingers. His breath caught with what he found. He had to breathe deeply to calm his own reactions. His tongue savoured Doyle’s neck.**

**A cop on duty is not supposed to have such reactions, much less foster them. A cop on duty shouldn’t be bent, or inclined to cheap sexual play. A cop on duty shouldn’t allow himself to be distracted.  
Bodie could see that Doyle was deliciously, shamelessly distracted. It was inappropriate, but so exciting it took the breath away. Bodie shivered, letting the sensations fill him. Doyle was in his arms; Doyle was at his fingertips. **

**There was a sound.**

**Their quarry was making a break for the door on the other side of the room. Doyle shouted, and they were both running, guns in hand, trying to intercept the stranger.**

**The man got through the door, but no further. Bodie had him in a neck lock, and Doyle snapped at him, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”**

**He was young --out of his teens, but not much more. Black, long-haired, frightened. “Nothin’, sir. I wasn’t doing nothin’ at all.”**

**Bodie let go of him. “ID,” he snapped.**

**“Don’t have none.”**

**“Name?”**

**“Philip, sir.”**

**“You trespassing?” asked Doyle.**

**“No, sir.”**

**“You work for the owners?”**

**“Just sometimes sir, you know, odd jobs. I don’t know nothing about no kidnapping.”**

**Bodie and Doyle looked at each other. “Let’s take him in,” said Doyle.**

**They went back to the station to interrogate Philip, whose other name turned out to be Lorton. It was a frustrating, uphill job. The first or second time they asked a question, they got nothing but “I don’t know.” When they bullied Lorton into listening to their questions, really listening, the answers became more detailed but less coherent. “I don’t know --he was in an overcoat — I don’t remember his name, it was Tallboy --it was Whipps --it was something I wasn’t supposed to hear --I didn’t know what they were doing --they didn’t tell me nothing, they just paid me.”**

**Doyle was losing patience. Bodie hadn’t felt any in the first place.**

**They played good cop/bad cop (Bodie was the harsh one) and still got nothing worthwhile out of Lorton’s chatter. After an hour of this, Bodie glared at Doyle and said, “I think we should take him to my office. That might shake something other than ‘I don’t know’ out of him.”**

**“Forget it,” said Doyle.**

**“I’m serious, mate.”**

**“So am I. This man isn’t going anywhere.” Anger and stubbornness flashed in Doyle’s eyes.**

**A wiser man might have let it drop. “I could get him to talk in ten minutes.”**

**“I said, forget it,” shouted Doyle.**

**Doyle walked out, slamming the door behind him. There was anger in his stance, flashing from the glare he tossed Bodie as he passed him to leave. Bodie followed, abandoning the frightened Philip Lorton to solitude with the PC on duty. Let him stew.**

**Doyle, moving fast and wanting to elude him, had disappeared around the corner. Bodie thought for only a moment and then went to Doyle’s office, where he found him fuming. “Well?” he said.**

**“I suppose you have thumbscrews and drugs for interrogation at CI5,” said Doyle. He was angry still, but becoming calmer. The point had struck a nerve. “Mind control and electrodes.”**

**Bodie raised his hands in the protestation of innocence. “Not us, mate. We use other kinds of persuasion.”**

**“Like what?”**

**Bodie grinned. “Cowley’s sweet smile. Red rubber gloves. Different games with different  
punters. Strategy.” **

**“Psychological terrorization.”**

**“Sometimes. It works.”**

**“It’s disgusting!” snapped Doyle.**

**There was a long silence. Doyle dropped into his chair and leaned back, his eyes closed. Bodie watched him, wondering what had happened in that quick brain behind the lidded green eyes.**

**Was this a reaction to their interrupted moment of sensuality in the warehouse? He wondered whether that had affected Doyle as deeply as it had affected him. He wondered if Doyle would talk about it. Some men had no qualms about doing it with another man, but wouldn’t discuss it out loud, not even with a lover. Others needed to talk it through, think it through, lay it out in the open between them. Bodie didn’t know what Doyle needed or wanted.**

**After a few minutes, Bodie sat on the corner of the desk, facing Doyle. He said quietly, “Yeah, it’s disgusting. I know that. But it works. The clock is against us, we have no bloody leads, Finlay is probably still alive but might be killed any hour we delay, and you think we should spare Philip Lorton a bit of a fright to save an innocent bloke’s life?”**

**Doyle looked at him with passionate, expressive eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I think. Because if we let expediency blind us to common decency, we’re no better than they are.”**

**Bodie nodded thoughtfully. He stood. “That’s why I’m not a policeman,” he said, flatly. “I am no better. But my goals are.”**

**Doyle continued to stare at him. Then his mouth curved, and Bodie read it as, if not a smile, then at least forgiveness. “I can’t understand that,” he said. “But I can respect it. Even so, I can’t give you Lorton for your torture chambers. Doesn’t matter if the torture is psychological instead of physical.”**

**“So. How do we find Finlay?”**

**“We trace the ownership of that building. Records is working on it. Then we go talk to the owners.”**

**“Be quicker my way.”**

**Doyle shrugged. “Be quicker to execute criminals without trials. Save a lot of money to close down the prisons, just chuck ’em all into the Thames in sacks. That’s not the way we operate in England.”**

**“I know exactly how we operate in England,” said Bodie grimly.**

**\- - -**

****three** **

**They followed their planned route of inquiries, hoping that Lorton might meanwhile break with the sheer tedium of waiting for something to happen, and say --accidentally or on purpose --something useful.**

**One of the owners of the building was traceable. They visited him in his home, where he was just sitting down for supper. He explained politely but firmly --clearly more interested in the delicious aroma of roast beef and curry potatoes than in their questions --that he had sold his share in that property two weeks ago, and the records were no doubt still being revised, the ways of the law being slow. He had sold it to a man named Kropper Wipps. He found the man’s business card with ill grace, and showed it to them. Doyle made a note of the information.**

**“Thanks,” said Bodie, who was thinking about the joys of roast beef and curry potatoes for his own sake now. It was past seven p.m.**

**As they got into the car, Doyle murmured, “See? No thumbscrews necessary.”**

**Bodie did not deign to reply.**

**Back at the station, it took little work to learn that Kropper Wipps had many other names, and that his current whereabouts were unknown. They put out an APB on him so they could, with luck, get him in for questioning, and set Cooper the task of gathering up what records there were on the man.**

**They walked together to the car park. “Join me for supper in the pub?” Bodie suggested. It was getting late.**

**“Naw. I’m knackered.” Doyle smiled at him over the roof of his own car. “Goin’ for the roast beef, are you?”**

**“Yeah,” said Bodie, smiling back. He thought of that moment in the warehouse, and he smiled again even more broadly. He could remember the feel of Doyle’s flesh through the cloth, the way Doyle’s body had physically moved to touch his. His smile grew broader.**

**Doyle returned the look with a nod that was unquestionably sensuous, a glance that was downright sultry. Bodie was certain he was thinking of the same moments. “Have a good night,” he said, and got into his car.**

**Bodie took Anita out for the roast beef meal, in a restaurant with an old-fashioned hearth and a way with the Yorkshire pudding. Afterwards, they went back to Anita’s place. Instead of making love to her, Bodie explained to her that he was putting an end to their relationship. She did not cry, as some women did when this happened, or get angry. That was not her style --and it explained, perhaps, why she had managed to hold his attention longer than most. Instead she said, “There’s someone else, then?”**

**“Yeah,” he said, but did not explain.**

**She smiled sadly. “I wonder how long she’ll get to keep you.”**

**“A few days, perhaps,” said Bodie, as if it didn’t matter.**

**\- - -**

**He lay naked in his bed, fantasizing about Inspector Raymond Doyle of the Metropolitan Police.**

**It was a laugh, really. He’d never been one of those dreamers who went for men in uniform, not at all. Not that Doyle wore a uniform, being CID. He’d done his days as a patrolman long since. He could imagine Doyle as a young copper, all dressed in blue and natty with brass buttons, patrolling the streets with a casual stride, getting to know the local riffraff by name. He’d take his job seriously, unlike so many. He’d stay honest, and play the multiple roles of marriage counsellor, referee, social worker, teacher, paramedic, disciplinarian, comforter. He’d bring thought and compassion to his work, along with a scrappy temper and a skill for thinking on his feet.**

**He’d bring also that sensuous grace, the physicality that could distract an agent so thoroughly in the course of his job in a warehouse chasing a potential witness.**

**He wondered what Doyle’s home was like. He didn’t know where he lived, or how. A flat, by himself? A house, shared with roommates or family members? Was there a girlfriend in the background, or did he sleep alone?**

**A steady boyfriend was unlikely, considering his position, but not impossible, if Doyle and his lover were quiet and discreet. Doyle would be. He hadn’t yet judged Doyle’s attitude, except to assess the come-hither glint in his eye in the car park: “Have a good night.” Yeah, mate, a good night, thinking about you. It would be a better night still if you were with me.**

**Doyle had not exactly fought off his groping in the warehouse. Bodie wondered whether his flirtation implied homoerotic experience or virgin curiosity. He had a strong olfactory memory of the scent, the taste, of Doyle’s soft skin on the back of his neck at the hairline, and the unambiguous hardness he had felt through the sturdy denim of his jeans with his exploring fingers.**

**He wove a few pleasant fantasies around Ray Doyle, but found himself returning to thoughts and  
memories of remembered reality, which aroused him more than the fantasies. Doyle’s lips and the way they smiled. His anger, his disgust at the hint of cruelty in CI5 interrogation techniques. His hard-working energy. The way he ran, lean legs stretching sinuously with every smooth stride. The way he had pressed his back against Bodie’s chest in the dim warehouse, wordlessly inviting the embrace. **

**His mind full of thoughts of Doyle, Bodie slept.**

**He awakened to a pounding on the door. It did not let up. His neighbours were doing some early morning repairs? No, shit, there was the doorbell going, too.**

**He checked the time, cursed, and put on his dressing gown as he found his way to the door.**

**Doyle, in jogging gear, was laughing at him. “What, sleepyhead? Not dressed up with somewhere to go? Thought I was going to have to get the fire department. Did you set your alarm?”**

**“Sod off,” said Bodie genially, holding the door open for him. “Even the head of the KGB sleeps late occasionally, and I have that information on good authority. Plug in the coffee pot, will you? I’ll be half a min.”**

**“More ’n that,” said Doyle, going to the kitchen to do so. “She was good, was she?”**

**“What?” Bodie, shaving, stuck his head around the door.**

**“The girl you were up with last night. In bed. The one that has you exhausted this morning.”**

**Bodie grinned. “The best.” He disappeared back into the bathroom.**

**“That’s what they all say,” said Doyle.**

**So they ran, in the bracing morning air. It was windy, sunny and cloudy at intervals, the air smelling like rain. The nip in the air indicated that the end of summer was close. At Cleopatra’s Needle, Doyle managed to stuff a handful of fallen leaves down Bodie’s back, and almost got thrown into the Thames for it. They wrestled, laughing, evenly matched and enjoying themselves.**

**Then they were at CI5 again, for more coffee and the morning reports. Susan, in the rest room, teased Doyle about being practically a CI5 man himself, since he could drink the foul brew McCabe had made. Susan enjoyed flirting with Doyle, and Doyle responded with light teasing and easy banter. Bodie listened to them, amused. He tried to isolate why he thought Doyle’s flirting with Susan meant nothing, while the flirting he did with Bodie seemed to him intensely serious. A difference in body language? An illusion that came from wishful thinking? More realistically, Susan was beautiful, you’d expect any man to want her, until they found out what a ball-breaker she could be. Bodie admired Susan intensely.**

**Doyle was friendly in his greeting to the agents they met. By this time, he knew a fair number of them, and greeted them by name: Jax and Morrison, Julia and Pettigrew. He even got a warm “hello” from Ruth, and when he discussed the case with Cowley it was with more elegance than Bodie was capable of.**

**There was, thought Bodie, studying him, a heightening of his energy. He was invigorated and full of ideas, bright as a fluorescent lamp, sharp as a tack. Was Doyle always like this, or had the case got him going?**

**Or was it something else? He looked like a man who was in love.**

**Which was something he dared not think about. He liked the thought too much.**

**Bodie almost coloured at the direction of his musings. He was getting carried away, wasn’t he? Doyle called him beautiful once, let him grope him once, smiled at him a time or two, and here he was, besotted and besmitten, and staring at the man’s profile while he argued with Cowley regarding the possibility of finding useful fingerprints in the warehouse where they had found Lorton.**

**Bodie tore his eyes away and tried to think cold thoughts. Finlay. Lorton. The invisible man, Kropper Wipps. Jesus.**

**“What do you think, 3.7?” asked Cowley.**

**Bodie knew better than to give any clue as to what he was thinking. “I agree with Doyle, sir.”**

**So they got the permission they wanted, and went out to the car park to go to Doyle’s office. Doyle was light on his feet, buoyant. “Lovely day,” he said, looking at the blue sky.**

**“Yeah,” said Bodie, who had eyes for nothing but Doyle.**

**He had to stop doing that. Stop thinking like that. It was a sure route to bad trouble. He knew it.**

**All the same, he was smiling as he got into the car.**

**Three hours’ work in Interpol records produced three possibilities for the identity of Kropper Wipps. Comparison of fingerprints found in both warehouses with bloodstains and the abandoned car proved that one of them had been there. His name had been Charles Tallman at that time, one of many aliases.**

**“Ah-hah!” said Doyle, back in his office with photos and documentation spread out before him on his desk. “Oh Charlie boy, we almost have you.”**

**“Except we don’t know where he is,” said Bodie drily. He was sitting in the comfortable leather  
chair that Doyle had imported into his office, which was probably stolen goods confiscated from some posh furniture warehouse. Bodie could and did stretch his legs in it. “What do you think the chances are that Finlay’s still alive?” **

**“Same as they always were,” said Doyle. “Fifty-fifty.”**

**Bodie shook his head. “More like slim to nothing, and fading fast. You optimist.”**

**“Who, me? No, I’m a bloody pessimist.”**

**Bodie shook his head. “Simply delusional.”**

**Doyle did not reply. He appeared to be looking at something behind Bodie, but Bodie glanced around, and saw nothing but the closed door. “What?” he said, as if Doyle had said something. Doyle simply stared, his mind elsewhere. Bodie said, “Doyle?”**

**“I want to fuck you,” said Doyle softly, as if in wonder.**

**Bodie’s breath caught. “Yeah,” he said. He smiled. His limbs turned to rubber. He spoke  
quietly, as Doyle had. “I want that too.” **

**The door opened. Cooper had her arms full of files. They almost fell as she manipulated the doorknob, and Bodie moved quickly to help, attentive as ever and only slightly more clumsy. His pulse was pounding.**

**“I got the files on Wipps,” she said, using her chin to steady the pile as she lowered it to the top of Doyle’s already messy desk. “Also known as Tallman, Berrington, or Sanders. White male Caucasian, aged 32 according to one set of records, 34 in another. Indicted for B &E, grievous bodily harm, held once on suspicion of murder but charges were dropped.” She waved a triumphant hand toward the pile of documentation. “There you are. A prime specimen of the native British criminal.” **

**“Thanks, Cooper,” said Doyle, tearing his eyes away from Bodie’s face. “Did you get his current  
address?” **

**“Top file, second page, bottom. He moves around a lot.”**

**“So would you, all that prison time,” said Bodie, who had appropriated one of the files Cooper had almost dropped, and was now leafing through it as if he were browsing through a book. “Look at this! Knifed a woman in Greenwich for her purse when he was fourteen.”**

**“Hard case,” agreed Doyle, reading. “Anything here give a clue as to where he’d take Finlay?”**

**“Dunno,” said Cooper. “Not as far as I read. I’ve only skimmed the surface. There was so much of it. He’s been busy all his life, with one thing or another.”**

**“Well, read it again, love,” said Doyle, with exaggerated patience. He tossed her another file. Bodie was engrossed in the second. “Look for anything geographical. Warehouses, buildings, country cottages --”**

**“Wells, dungeons, towers --” said Bodie, without looking up.**

**“Cellars, attics, garages --”**

**“Cliffside caves.”**

**Doyle looked up. “Caves?”**

**“Read it once in Boy’s Own Annual,” said Bodie apologetically. “Caves as hideouts for kidnappers.”**

**“So that’s how CI5 agents get their training,” said Doyle. Cooper chuckled. Bodie ignored him, and went on reading.**

**They came up with a small stack of promising addresses. Leaving Cooper to phone likely contacts, Bodie and Doyle took the list and went to Doyle’s car, to search them one by one. They had worked out a methodical order, going roughly counterclockwise, starting to the east, then north, then west and south. After a few comments about the case, there was silence in the car, enlivened by the occasional burst of speech from the radio.**

**They had almost reached the first address when Bodie said quietly, “When?”**

**Because of the way he had dropped his voice, there was no doubt what he meant. Doyle kept his attention on the road, and pretended otherwise. “When what?”**

**“How soon we forget,” said Bodie lightly. “You said you wanted to fuck me.” He was staring  
intently at Doyle’s unrevealing profile. **

**“Shouldn’t have said that,” said Doyle. He stopped for a light, still didn’t look at Bodie.**

**“What, you didn’t mean it?”**

**“Oh, I meant it all right.”**

**“So what’s the problem?”**

**“I can’t,” said Doyle. “I can’t.”**

**Bodie looked away from his face and took a deep breath. What did that mean? That Doyle was afraid for his job, his sexual integrity, his reputation, what? The car pulled up at the kerb and stopped. Bodie turned, catching the full stare of Doyle’s eyes, seeing the desperation in them. Whatever the problem was, it was hurting him.**

**So, for Doyle, it was no light matter.**

**He wished he knew what was going on in that curly head, what combination of love and need and guilt and fear. He said gently, “Whenever you’re ready, mate, you just let me know. I’ve been ready for days.”**

**Doyle touched his hand. It was, perhaps, as far as he could go in a parked car in broad daylight on a residential street. The touch, light as it was, sent thunder cascading through Bodie’s frame.**

**“Thanks,” said Doyle, without specifying what he was thanking Bodie for. He got out of the car.  
“Mr Wipps-Tallman, here we come.” **

**The first address was an abandoned building, boarded up, with no sign of habitation. They broke in anyway, to do a quick search of the premises. Nothing but dust. There had been nothing but dust here for many months.**

**At the second address, they received the news that Wipps had lived there, but had moved out early in July. “Almost two months ago,” said Doyle.**

**“Dead end,” agreed Bodie.**

**The next place was an industrial address. Not a warehouse, but a factory. It too appeared to be disused, old, the dirty windows cracked and broken, each one too small for anything larger than a cat.**

**There was nothing in the building except old, rusted machinery of incomprehensible use. “Wonder what they made,” mused Doyle.**

**“Noise?” suggested Bodie. He was looking out a broken back window. “There’s a shed in the back. I’m going to check on it.”**

**“Fine,” said Doyle, who had found a desk and was riffling through the drawers, where now-illegible papers made nests for opportunistic mice.**

**Bodie went out the back way, propping the door open behind him for light and air. The back lot was muddy. He crossed to the shed, noticing as he approached that the lock was new. He bent to examine it, wondering whether the fingerprint experts ought to come here before he touched it. Nothing showed current use, but someone had been here long after the factory was closed and left to rot.**

**He sensed someone behind him, and turned, fast. In doing so, he missed a blow that might have killed him.**

**Four men attacked. One had a baseball bat. The bat connected with his arm as he reached for his gun, and the Berretta fell to the ground. He tried to reach for it, but turned the movement into attack as they came at him.**

**Made slow by the damage done previously, he had lost the advantage he should have had. Even with everything Shusai had taught him, and Macklin too, he had only driven back the first two when they brought him down, and beat him. They were quiet and methodical.**

**He shouted, before losing consciousness.**

**\- - -**

**He awoke to find Doyle kneeling beside him, a wet cloth to his head. “Don’t move around too much,” said Doyle. The cloth came away marked with blood. Bodie tried to sit up and Doyle put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t move. I’m going to call for an ambulance.”**

**“Don’t need a bloody ambulance.”**

**“You’ve a cut on your head, and you were unconscious when I found you. You need an ambulance. You need medical care.”**

**“Just need the CI5 doctor,” argued Bodie. “And you can drive me there as well as the ambulance and with a lot less fuss.” He sat up, and this time Doyle didn’t stop him. Doyle sat on his heels, looking perplexed.**

**“I should have been quicker,” he said. “Didn’t realise what was up until you shouted.”**

**“I should’ve been quicker m’self,” said Bodie. “I had a gun. Didn’t get a chance to fire, did I?” Doyle looked around, and saw it lying in the mud. He retrieved the gun and handed it to Bodie, who put it back in his holster.**

**Bodie grinned at the way Doyle was looking at him. His grin was lopsided because his lip was swelling. “We really are tough in CI5, you know. Built to take punishment.”**

**“You berk,” said Doyle, but he looked less anxious.**

**Leaning on his right arm, still sitting on the ground with Doyle squatting beside him, Bodie touched Doyle’s cheek with his left hand. His fingers ran over the textured angle of the cheek, and his thumb brushed the soft skin under his chin. Doyle did not move. His eyes burned with a dangerous light. Smiling still, Bodie leaned forward, his hand pulling Doyle’s head towards him until he brushed Doyle’s lips with his own, gently. Doyle’s lips opened. There was a moment of wonder as their tongues touched. Then Doyle pulled back abruptly. He said, “Come on, let’s get you to that doctor.”**

**Bodie did not argue. He let Doyle support him to the car, and moved gingerly into the passenger seat, fidgeting to get comfortable when there was no comfortable position. All his bruises from a few days ago had reawakened, encouraged by a whole new set. “They might’ve killed me if you hadn’t come,” he said. “Thanks, Doyle.”**

**Doyle grunted. “Should have been sooner.” He pulled onto the street, driving faster than normal. “Wish I’d nicked one of them. Soon’s they saw me, they ran.”**

**“Wish you had been sooner. Still, I got a good look at them.”**

**“Time for the picture books?”**

**“Yeah, right after I get plasters and painkillers.”**

**“Won’t be long, mate.”**

**“Not the way you’re driving.”**

**Doyle flashed him a wicked glance, and went faster.**

**Enjoying the speed, Bodie tried to relax into the seat, not to let the discomforts get to him. He thought of the kiss they had just exchanged, and of the expression in Doyle’s eyes when he had said, “I want to fuck you.”**

**Doyle was ready, almost as ready as he was. Frightened of his own feelings, perhaps. Bodie’s guess was that Doyle had never done anything with another man, that he’d focussed all that beautiful sexuality exclusively on women. Until now.**

**But Bodie, for reasons that Bodie could only guess at, had triggered other feelings and other directions in this life. Of course Doyle was afraid, any sane man would be, especially with his work. It was an intolerant world, full of bigotries and rules. Bodie had not met Superintendent Brace and Doyle spoke of him as little as possible, but it was clear that theirs was an unhappy relationship --something which made Bodie all the more thankful for his own good rapport with George Cowley.**

**What Doyle needed was reassurance, and support, and plenty of good sex from Bodie. That was what he needed. Bodie smiled at the thought. Soon . . . tonight, perhaps? He hadn’t felt such anticipation in --he couldn’t remember ever feeling such anticipation. Despite his pain, he felt a swelling joy.**

**He readjusted his position so he could look at Doyle’s face. It was a wonderful face, full of planes and angles and surprises.**

**Bodie said, “You ever done it with a man before?”**

**“No,” said Doyle, confirming his guess. “Bodie --”**

**But whatever thought he was about to express, he couldn’t say it.**

**“It’s all right,” said Bodie. “I understand.”**

**“No, you don’t,” said Doyle. “What I said, before --I shouldn’t have said it.”**

**“Why? Was it a lie?”**

**The silence spread. “No,” said Doyle, at last. “No. It wasn’t a lie.” He closed his mouth tightly, and Bodie, smiling, settled back on his seat, flinching only slightly at the pain.**

**By the time Bodie was patched up, and when at last the painkillers started to flood his system, Doyle had been to the station and back again. It was past dinner-time by most people’s standards, especially Bodie’s. It was getting on to twilight.**

**Doyle looked critically at Bodie’s battered body. Bodie’s left arm was in a sling for torn muscles, and he had a slight limp. The bandage on his scalp gave him a rakish look. His face, except for an almost imperceptible swelling of the lower lip, was unmarked. “You’re a right mess,” said Doyle.**

**“Heal quickly, don’t I?” said Bodie, making the valiant effort not to limp for two steps.**

**“You have anyone at home to take care of you?”**

**“Not a soul.”**

**“What about the girlfriend?”**

**“What girlfriend?”**

**Doyle grunted. “Go through them fast, don’t you? Listen, I don’t think you should be alone this evening.”**

**Bodie optimistically said nothing.**

**Doyle chewed his lip, thinking.**

**“Come back to my place with me then,” suggested Bodie. If they had not been standing in the corridors of CI5, he would have touched him. As it was, he brushed Doyle’s arm lightly with his hand.**

**Doyle made an abrupt decision. He said, “No. I’ll take you to my place.”**

**\- - -**

**Bodie was quiet on the drive, but his brain was working overtime.**

**An end to loneliness, that was what this was. Love such as he had seldom felt. Too late now to worry about whether it was wise, whether it was possible --it was necessary, it was inescapable, and even if he could resist or escape he would not. He could only hope it was the same for Doyle. Sensuous, enticing Doyle.**

**Excitement filled him. He had needed Doyle all his life, without knowing it. What makes a person love one person, and not another? He didn’t know. He could list a thousand reasons for loving Doyle, all of them pointless. It simply happened because sometimes it was a world where miracles happened.**

**He was not a man to fall in love easily. Each time it had happened in the past it had been intense and consuming, a relationship that had overturned his life, then left him broken and in despair.**

**He would never fall in love again, or so he had believed. An easy resolve for a man whose heart had been so badly mended. He didn’t want marriage, assuming no one would marry the bad risk he would be. He didn’t want property or children, the goals of the multitude. He liked sex without attachments. Not anonymous sex, but uncommitted sex with the easy-going smart-mouthed society girls and the working class women looking for a little diversion; the young men, on occasion, who liked what he put on offer. He knew how to make an affair happy and brief, exciting but ephemeral. He knew how to end it before fascination turned to frustration, and before boredom became resentment.**

**He would not expect ever to fall in love again, because the cost would be so high, even were he tempted. He was a CI5 man, which meant he had no real private life, no time off duty, no security from danger, low pay: little enough to attract a woman’s long-term interest. Casual serial affairs, owing nothing to anyone, that was how he liked it.**

**It also meant that it was irregular, improper and courting dismissal for him to become involved with a man, whether the relationship were short-term, long-term or anything in between.**

**This had never distressed him.**

**But sometimes --only a few times in a lifetime --it was as if a sword had been plunged into the heart, and all those other considerations were as nothing.**

**He had not thought he would seriously want another man ever again, even for a brief diversion. Least of all a smart-mouthed CID man with curly hair, tight jeans, and sharp-edged jokes.**

**Not that it should be something he could anticipate. The ancients had it right: love was a magnificent madness which shoved everything out of its way, leaving only the glare of truth.**

**This was love. It thrilled him and terrified him, made him utterly curious about this man he hardly knew and yet valued so much. It filled his nerve-ends with anticipation of touch, made him painfully aware of Doyle’s body, so that every move was arousing, every glance a visual aphrodisiac.**

**He reached over with his right hand and touched Doyle’s hair, once again marvelling at its softness. Doyle glanced at him, but did not smile or speak.**

**Bodie let his hand fall. Doyle was frightened, of course, but he knew Doyle’s type of courage. He would go for what he truly wanted, disregarding danger and disapproval. Nerves wouldn’t stop him, even if he’d never touched another man, even if he’d never wanted to. Neither would fear of retribution or disgrace in the Met, any more than Bodie was afraid of the official censure of CI5. Bodie knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Doyle loved him, and wanted him, and that nothing could keep them apart now.**

**So Doyle was taking him home. It might have been an impulse of compassion, directed towards a colleague who had nowhere to go but an empty flat. As, in fact, it was.**

**It was also more than that. It was the decision that had already been made, to carry through with this. Bodie had seen the expression on Doyle’s face, knew that once they were alone together they would observe no limits. He did not know what qualms Doyle felt, or why, but he knew what Doyle wanted, and it was the same thing he wanted. “I can’t,” Doyle had said, in desperation. But before he had said that, he had said, “I want to fuck you.”**

**That was the reality beside which nothing else mattered, for Bodie at least.**

**If fears or regulations or some archaic conscience instilled from the pulpit in painful sermons against lust and vice had rooted themselves in Doyle’s skull, Bodie was sure he had cast them all aside, because this was more important to both of them. He knew Doyle cared. He knew Doyle’s body was on his side, craving his touch, helping him to overcome whatever reservations Doyle might have. Demolishing those reservations with a desire as strong as Bodie’s own.**

**The outcome was a certainty. Doyle wanted him as much as he wanted Doyle; he’d seen that clearly in the revealing green eyes. It had been abundantly clear in the warehouse, as he silently encouraged the lips on his neck, moving his body against Bodie’s for the pleasure of it. It had been clear in that kiss today, a kiss full of tentative longing.**

**Anything else was irrelevant.**

**And the moment of discovery would be soon now.**

**Bodie thought for a moment what it would be like to reach climax in Doyle’s arms, and then had to force himself to control the tremor that came over him. Jesus! He was out of control.**

**When desire and love come together, that was when it was best.**

**Soon, he thought. Soon, as the car sped down Fulham Road towards Putney. Soon.**

**Doyle lived just short of Putney, west of the bridge over the Thames on a quietly thriving street. Dorncliffe Road was a short array of pleasant row houses. Front gardens were the sizes of flower boxes, where in tiny spaces the carefully tended summer flowers caught the eye, a perky counterpoint to the white-trimmed grey stone. Such neighbourhoods, Bodie thought, were London at its best, clean and healthy and honest.**

**Doyle parked at the kerb and got out of the car. Bodie, tense with desire, shot him a look, which Doyle ignored as he held the car door open, offering a hand to help Bodie out. Bodie could have managed on his own, but couldn’t resist the contact, the feel of Doyle’s hand, strong and warm, in his own for a moment. He let his fingers delicately brush Doyle’s palm as Doyle let go. Doyle ignored the caress. Inflamed by it, Bodie felt its effect flow through his body. He was steps away from what he most wanted: beautiful, sexy, elusive Doyle.**

**Some kid had left a ball on the step, which Doyle picked up and tossed in one hand on his way up the steps. He pushed open the unlocked door. “I’m home!” he shouted, and suddenly there was chaos in the hallway.**

**The dog got there first, a shaggy grey sheepdog, which jumped on Doyle with a woof! He was barely ahead of a number of wild-haired kids, all apparently talking at once, with the word “Daddy” taking prominent place.**

**It was the littlest one who stopped to stare at Bodie. “Who’re you?” he asked.**

**“Hello, love,” said a cheery, dark-haired woman, following the mob as she wiped her hands on a  
towel. She bent over a child to kiss Doyle briefly on the lips. “Couldn’t believe it was you already, you aren’t as late as usual.” **

**“First time for everything,” said Doyle cheerfully. He smiled at the littlest one, who was still staring shyly at Bodie. Doyle squatted down to be on a level with him. “This is Bodie, Kev. He’s the man I’m working with now. Bodie, this is my youngest, Kevin. This is Sarah, and this is Michael, the dog is Bascombe. And this,” as he rose to slip an arm around the woman’s waist, “is my wife, Cheryl.”**

**“Pleased to meet you,” said Cheryl. She put the towel over her shoulder and held out her hand. Bodie shook it, smiling with a charm that Doyle, had he known him better, would have known to be foreplay to murder.**

**Then he solemnly shook hands with Sarah, a round-eyed sophisticate in jeans and a pony tail. Michael held back, but he said, “Why do you have a plaster on your head?”**

**“A doctor put it there,” said Bodie. “I can’t think why.”**

**“The bandaging,” said Doyle, “is because someone bashed him. People with bashed heads shouldn’t be left to fend for themselves. I brought him home to stay with us tonight so we can take care of him.”**

**I didn’t come here for them to take care of me, thought Bodie. I wanted you to take care of me --in  
your bed. You bastard. **

**“Would you like a drink, Mr Bodie?” asked Cheryl, moving Kevin out of her path as she led the way  
to the sitting room. **

**“Yes, please,” he said. “Gin and tonic, if you have it.”**

**“Better not,” said Doyle. “Painkillers.”**

**“Doesn’t matter.”**

**“Yes, it does.”**

**They glared at each other.**

**Doyle said, “You’re here so we can take care of you. I don’t want to see you going into a coma on  
my premises.” **

**“I can leave,” said Bodie tightly.**

**They stared at each other, unspoken thoughts clear:**

**Bodie: You bastard. You led me on.**

**Doyle: I’m sorry. What can I do?**

**“Don’t leave,” said young Sarah anxiously. “You can have some of my ginger beer.”**

**Bodie held Doyle’s gaze one second more, angry and unforgiving. Then he looked at the little girl,  
grinned engagingly, and said, “Thank you. Can you put ice in it?” **

**She ran to the kitchen for the ice, and Bodie, bringing his social charm to the fore, asked Doyle’s  
wife about her work. **

**Under most circumstances, Bodie was an easy-going sort, but when he lost his temper, he was  
implacable. He could (and did) frighten hardened criminals with his anger. **

**Doyle witnessed it close-hand, his perceptions open to Bodie’s every thought, aware of every angry glare directed his way. The foul mood stayed with him, making Doyle think uncomfortably of the dark side of CI5, where violence and hardness were virtues to be fostered. It gave Bodie an edge that Doyle could understand. The rest of the family could perceive it, but not know what lay behind it: expectation and disappointment. Doyle alone knew exactly what had caused it.**

**White-faced, Doyle understood that anger, understood why Bodie brushed off his conversational gambits, understood why he glared at him like an enemy. He recognised the lust, the pain, the frustration. He felt something similar himself. He could not acknowledge any of it.**

**And in front of Cheryl, Doyle had to pretend that everything was fine.**

**Cheryl did not understand, though he saw that she picked up on the undercurrent with characteristic perceptiveness. Bodie was easily and deliberately charming to her: polite, witty, conversational. He entertained the dinner-table with highly unlikely but utterly amusing stories of CI5 adventures, and taught young Kevin to make a rude noise with his fork until Cheryl scolded them both. Bodie took the scolding meekly, and winked at the boy in the high chair. Kevin was entranced. So was Michael, who had been to school already and was not disposed to judge adults kindly.**

**So was Doyle, who had to hide both the fascination and the guilt.**

**After five minutes, no one was calling him “Mr Bodie” any more and Sarah had taken a proprietary attitude to him, playing the hostess when they let her, putting her arms around his neck when she got the chance. Michael was less demonstrative and had little to say, but he stared at Bodie, listening intently whenever Bodie spoke.**

**Bodie might have wished that the insistent nudging at his knees was not Bascombe, hoping for handouts from the stranger who might not have the family inhibitions about feeding the dog. Bodie said, “Go sit down,” and was rewarded by a whimper and a shoulder against his knee.**

**“Go lie down,” said Sarah, bending under the table, but Bascombe ignored her except to thump his tail once against the floor.**

**“Just ignore him, he’ll go away,” said Cheryl. She was wrong, and Bodie became accustomed to the warm fur sleeping over his feet under the table.**

**After dinner, Doyle helped Sarah with homework and Bodie sat to watch television with Michael, while Cheryl took Kevin upstairs to bath and bed.**

**After ten minutes of cartoons, Michael started to talk. He told Bodie about what he did at school and how he did it. He told him about his friends and their friends and relatives, and soon Bodie had heard all there was to hear of the gossip of the five-year-old set in Fulham.**

**When Cheryl came to take Michael upstairs, he balked.**

**“You can have a story,” she cajoled.**

**“Will Bodie read it to me?”**

**“No, dear, he needs some rest.”**

**“Please?”**

**The plea was urgent, the imploring eyes enough like Doyle’s to be startling. “I could read a story,” said Bodie, indignant. “I’m not as injured as all that.”**

**So Bodie settled on the side of Michael’s bed and read nursery rhymes followed by The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck, at which point Cheryl came and called a halt and made Michael turn out the light. “Will I see you tomorrow?” Michael asked Bodie.**

**“If you’re up before I leave,” said Bodie.**

**“That was very kind of you,” said Cheryl, as they went down the stairs.**

**“I don’t often get to interact with kids,” said Bodie. “I like it. Mind you, I’m not volunteering to babysit. But I can read a story, now and then.”**

**“Multiple talents,” said Cheryl. “I like that in a man.”**

**He smiled at her. “Yeah. You should see me with an AK47.”**

**Sarah, on her way to bed, said, “Will you visit us again?”**

**“I don’t know,” said Bodie. Doyle was watching him, leaning against the kitchen door. Sarah ran to him, with a hug and a kiss. “Good night, Daddy.”**

**“G’night, love. See you in the morning.” She ran upstairs and Doyle continued to stare at Bodie, his expression unrevealing, his tight jeans quite otherwise. Bodie pointedly looked him up and down and Doyle, with an expression of disgust, turned away and went back into the kitchen.**

**Damned exhibitionist, thought Bodie. He sat down with a book, chosen at random from the shelf. Dick Francis, _Smokescreen_. Well, could be worse. He began to read, but his mind would not focus on the words. His thoughts stayed with Doyle, following him through the house, chatting with Cheryl in the kitchen, writing something at the dining room table, wandering back to the kitchen. Bodie could hear the interplay of voices, but not the words. He did not want to hear the words. They would be something simple and domestic, emphasising the family cohesion by their total mundanity. **

**Christ!**

**He wished he could dislike Cheryl. She was bright, personable, good-natured. Not a pretentious woman, but straightforward. Practical. The right sort of wife for a copper, not one to worry unnecessarily, or nag him about his hours.**

**She had everything Bodie wished for. She had Doyle, with her and in her bed on a permanent basis. Companion and lover. Everything.**

**Doyle came back to the sitting room. “Show you your room?”**

**“Okay,” said Bodie. He got up, putting the book neatly back on the shelf.**

**They went up the stairs in silence. “There’s your room,” said Doyle, indicating the one at the back of the hallway. He rummaged in a linen closet. “Here’s a towel. A flannel. And this . . . an old jogging outfit. Might fit you, to sleep in.”**

**Bodie said, “Going to act as if nothing’s going on, are we?”**

**Doyle said stiffly, “I didn’t lie to you. Told you what I wanted. I know I should have kept my mouth shut. Told you I wasn’t able to do anything about it. Should have told you about Cheryl, yeah, I know. But I couldn’t.”**

**“Why not?”**

**“Because . . . .”**

**“Because you were playing games with me? Making a conquest? Showing off your looks? What?”**

**“Don’t wake the kids,” said Doyle.**

**Bodie lowered his voice. “Explain.”**

**“I never meant . . . .”**

**“You did.” Bodie moved towards him. Doyle watched him.**

**“I wanted you,” said Doyle softly. “I’m sorry.”**

**“Not enough,” said Bodie. He had Doyle backed against the wall, now. He knocked the towel and running suit to the ground, and pushed against Doyle with the full length of his body, holding him with a forearm across his neck, the pressure light enough so that Doyle could breathe, but heavy enough to immobilise him.**

**He kissed Doyle with a fierceness that showed no mercy. Lips plundered lips, demanded more, relished the sensations they roused and the force of it. Bodie put his hand, heavy, on Doyle’s crotch. He hissed, “Look, Doyle --you want me still.”**

**Doyle struggled, tried to pull away, but against the wall, he had no leverage. Bodie would not let him escape. Doyle twisted abruptly, caught Bodie in a hold and threw him across the floor, so that he landed hard against the opposite wall with an involuntary cry. The breath knocked out of him, Bodie did not speak.**

**“Get your hands off me,” said Doyle harshly, his voice still low.**

**“Everything all right up there?” came Cheryl’s voice, from the bottom of the stairs. She must have thought someone had fallen off a ladder.**

**“Yeah,” said Doyle, watching Bodie get up from the floor. Bodie was rubbing his head where it had hit the wall. The ache had redoubled. He couldn’t believe that Doyle had thrown him. Even with the blow he’d had on the head, it shouldn’t have been possible. Doyle was bloody good.**

**Bodie looked assessingly at him. “Well done,” he said. He looked at Michael, who was standing in the half-open doorway of his bedroom, eyes wide. It appeared that Sarah and Kevin had slept through the melodrama. Bodie picked up the towel and makeshift pyjamas from the floor.**

**Doyle followed Bodie’s gaze. “Go back to bed,” he said. “Go on, now. Nothing’s happening here.”**

**Michael simply stared.**

**“Bed,” said Bodie. Michael disappeared, shutting the door behind him.**

**Doyle said awkwardly, “See you in the morning, Bodie.”**

**Bodie turned and went into the guest room without speaking.**

**Without undressing, Bodie threw himself the length of the bed, and let his face rest in the pillow. His head ached. Why should it be free of pain, when the rest of his body and spirit were not? Tense with grief, he made fists, and stretched the clenched fingers. Bloody hell. He was mourning the loss of something he had never had, could never have, Doyle’s love. Doyle, the married man with three children and a dog. Commitments. Hadn’t told him, had he? Just the come-hither looks and the easy encouragement of wandering hands.**

**To hell with him.**

**Fucking cock-tease. How dare he treat his wife like that? She didn’t know, of course. It must be just his little game. Did he play it with everyone, or had Bodie just seemed especially vulnerable?**

**Bur even in the privacy of his aching head, his anger felt false and forced. He wanted to be angry. Anger was healthy, healing, and it would be a buffer for the pain. But the anger kept fading away under the memory of Doyle’s body and the way it looked. He thought of the kiss he had forced on Doyle, the delightful, exciting, heady, sensuous thrill of those lips and that body against his, despite all. The anger was a weak and paltry thing compared to the desire that had not gone away and which clung to him like a second skin.**

**Doyle was trouble and he should leave the bastard alone; but his heart mourned.**

**\- - -**

****four** **

**Bodie woke in the morning to a tap on the door. For a moment he was disoriented, forgetting whose house this was. Then he remembered. A woman’s voice said, “Bodie? Wake up!”**

**“Come in,” he said, rolling over awkwardly. The clock on the table said it was just after six-thirty. He was fully dressed; he must have been so knackered he had fallen asleep where he lay, overcome despite himself. The effect, perhaps, of the tablets they had given him. He felt a moment’s fleeting regret about the jogging outfit he had not worn. There was something appealing about the notion of wearing Doyle’s track suit bottoms, however ill-fitting.**

**Cheryl came in, a steaming cup and saucer in her hand. “Good morning. I brought you some tea.”**

**“You angel of mercy,” he said, and took it from her. “Sweetened?”**

**“And with double cream,” she said proudly. “I asked Ray.”**

**He sipped the hot, sweet drink. “Perfect,” he said.**

**She sat on the side of his bed. She was wearing bedroom slippers and a dressing gown, the legs of yellow cotton pyjamas showing below its hem. She looked cute. Few women he had known would wear such garments. His girlfriends tended, at least in his presence, to wear flimsy expensive things in silk or nylon and lace, revealing more than they covered. Usually the garment, assuming it were produced at all, did not last long.**

**But then, he was not usually in a bedroom in a non-sexual situation facing a respectable married woman clad in her dressing gown. Few women of his acquaintance, now he thought of it, would consider themselves safe in his bedroom dressed like that, unless they wanted his sexual attentions. Most of them did. Most of them did not sit in platonic, friendly fashion at the foot of his bed. Except it was her bed, in her guest room, and she was married to Doyle.**

**“Feeling better?” she asked.**

**“Yeah,” he lied. He was, in some ways. The headache was gone, leaving merely a tenderness in the scalp around the area with stitches. The other aches and pains had faded. “Thanks for taking me in.”**

**“Happily. We don’t often get to meet the people Ray works with, except Cooper and her husband. We were curious about you.”**

**“Doyle told you about me?”**

**“We’ve been hearing about the mysterious, omnipotent CI5 man all week. We are all enthralled. Weapons expert, martial arts expert, the man who carries a big gun and knows how to use it. Oh yes, we know all about you.”**

**“I hope I didn’t disappoint too much,” said Bodie. “Being a mere mortal and all.”**

**“Oh, no. You exceeded expectations all around. Puns, television, and Jemima Puddle-Duck, not to mention striking good looks and tolerance of the dog. Well done.” She hesitated, decided to say what was on her mind. “Let me ask you. Did something funny happen with Ray yesterday?”**

**“Funny?” said Bodie. He sipped his tea.**

**“He was acting odd last night. He had trouble sleeping. I wondered if there was anything . . . well, you know. Funny. Something that might have distressed him.”**

**“There’s an abduction we haven’t got to the bottom of,” said Bodie. “I don’t know. Ask him.” He smiled slightly. “You know him better than I do.” He hoped the heavy irony did not show, or the bitterness behind it.**

**She nodded. “I’ll leave you to get dressed. Thought you’d like a little time to get ready before the younger set is up.”**

**“Thanks.”**

**“Breakfast’s in the kitchen. It’s rather rudimentary, I’m afraid, but you can help yourself to anything you find.”**

**“Champagne? Caviar?”**

**“More like bottled orange juice and bran flakes.” She jumped up. “My turn for the loo! You’re next after,” and disappeared out the door without closing it behind her.**

**It must have been Doyle she heard leaving the bathroom, because he appeared in the doorway a moment later, towelling wet hair, in his own brown dressing gown and damp bare feet. “Bodie? You all right?”**

**“There’s all right,” said Bodie, “and there’s all right.” He sat, feeling very much like a man with a bashed head who had slept in his clothes. He was acutely aware of how damp and warm and desirable Doyle looked.**

**“We have to work together,” said Doyle. “Are we going to be sparring all day? I said I was sorry.”**

**“Prove it,” snapped Bodie.**

**Doyle turned from the doorway, and went back to the bedroom he shared with Cheryl.**

**“Bloody hell,” said Bodie to himself, and punched the pillow.**

**They got into the car. “Are we going to run this morning?” asked Bodie.**

**Doyle eyed him uncertainly. “You up to it?”**

**“Me, I’m up to anything. It might release the kinks.” Sheer deviltry made him add, “Relieve the tension.”**

**“All right,” said Doyle. “Your place first, so you can get changed. Then we run.”**

**Running cleared the head, made the lungs expand, brought vigour back to his bones. Bodie was able to ignore the aches, and his head didn’t hurt, as long as he didn’t touch it. He fell behind to watch Doyle run, but Doyle went more slowly for him to catch up. “I’m not a basket case,” said Bodie.**

**“Don’t want you collapsing on me.”**

**Bodie’s mouth tightened. He would not say the reply that came to mind first. They ran in silence.**

**Sergeant Cooper, Bodie’s partner Susan, and the CI5 computers had more leads on locations by the time they arrived. They spent some time discussing the possibilities, then went to examine each location, one by one. The first place was a house near Wimbledon, locked and empty. The second was a garage, with several vehicles and no sign of human presence.**

**They decided to call a break in the land-search, and talk to Lorton again.**

**He was ready to talk, and at great length, though it became increasingly clear he still had nothing of significance to say. He told them minutiae of Wipps’ appearance and things he had said. He remembered, after a night’s hysterical imaginings, a vast variety of details, from the mud on Wipps’ shoes to the menace in his voice. They had a vivid picture of an unsavoury man, and an even more vivid picture of Lorton’s unremarkable mind. Nothing to go on.**

**“I hate it when a black man’s a fool,” said Cooper.**

**“Plenty of white fools around,” said Doyle.**

**They went back on the road, eating sandwiches as they went. Doyle was driving.**

**“Egg salad,” said Bodie, shaking his head. “That’s not real food. They eat those things at Church picnics.”**

**“Better’n your gammon and pickles.”**

**“That’s real food, that is,” said Bodie.**

**The building might once have been a shop. The windows were boarded up, but they found a serviceable door and footprints in the mud leading up to it. “Mud on Wipps’ boots, Lorton said,” remarked Doyle, examining the ground. It was a bright day, and dry. The ground, muddy from earlier rains, had hardened to show clear footprints. Three, maybe four men had been there.**

**“Could be,” said Bodie briefly. He tried the door; locked. He pulled out his Swiss Army knife and wire, and set to work picking it.**

**“You could break in,” suggested Doyle.**

**“Could break a foot, you mean. This is a sturdy door.”**

**“I didn’t mean the door, you berk. I meant the window. It’s just plywood.”**

**“No, I’ve got it.” The door swung open. Bodie took his gun in hand, and they went into the  
darkness. **

**“Anyone here?” shouted Doyle.**

**Silence in the dark.**

**“Here we go again,” murmured Bodie. He looked at Doyle. For a moment their gaze was stark, personal, nothing to do with the case or the surroundings.**

**“I meant it,” said Doyle starkly.**

**“I know. Doesn’t help me, though, does it?”**

**Doyle shook his head. “I wish --”**

**“So do I,” said Bodie heavily. “Doesn’t matter much in the long run. We can wish what we like. That doesn’t make anything different for either of us. Wanting each other doesn’t make your wife disappear.”**

**Doyle didn’t answer.**

**“C’mon,” said Bodie. “I think Finlay is here.” His tone was grim.**

**“Why? CI5 instinct?”**

**“No. Can’t you smell something?”**

**“Fuck,” said Doyle, and started to move.**

**In the first room at the top of the stairs, they found Finlay. He was bound and gagged, with a bullet hole in his head and another in his heart.**

**Bodie had seen too much death in his life as a mercenary and as a soldier. As a homicide investigator, Doyle had as well. They had learned to deal with it, each in their own way. Doyle’s approach was to find the truth behind death, the thoughts and feelings and motives of the killers, so that justice could be administered with impartial reason.**

**Bodie had turned from the African jungle and the battle-scarred streets of Ulster, to work with CI5 against the men who perpetuated death as their cause. Men like those who had taken Finlay here, and had executed him because he had told them all he had to tell --or perhaps nothing at all.**

**Bodie used the r/t to call CI5. Then he turned back to Doyle, put a hand on his shoulder as Doyle knelt beside the corpse.**

**“So,” he said. “We failed this one, mate. We didn’t save him.”**

**“Life’s too short,” said Doyle. He was staring down at the corpse as if he saw nothing.**

**“Doyle?”**

**Doyle looked up. “Finlay shouldn’t be dead.”**

**“What a deduction. You’re a genius sometimes, Einstein.”**

**“I mean it.” He stood, brushing his jeans as if they were dusty. “We’ll nail the men who did this.”**

**“Course,” said Bodie. He watched Doyle cross the room and break the plywood off the window, so that suddenly the room was full of sunlight and the stench was relieved by a fresh breeze. The sunlight etched the lines in Doyle’s face as if he were sculpted in bronze; in gold. Slowly Doyle turned his head to look into Bodie’s eyes. Bodie did not move. His heart was suddenly pounding again.**

**“Bodie --” said Doyle.**

**“Forget it,” said Bodie.**

**“I just wanted to say --”**

**“No.”**

**Doyle gave up. “All right. Here comes the seventh cavalry.” The sirens were loud in their ears.**

**“Too late for Finlay.”**

**“Yeah. But it isn’t too late for us.”**

**Bodie did not ask what he meant. He hardly heard him. He felt heavy of heart, dispirited and discouraged by their failure. If they had tried harder . . . if he had not been distracted by his new, foolish, hopeless love, they might have found Finlay while he was still alive. He went downstairs to meet the medical examiner and the photographer.**

**Thoughtfully, Doyle followed.**

**The working day came to a late end. The thankless task of telling Paula Finlay about her husband’s death was the worse part. At the end of it, Doyle followed Bodie to his car. “G’night, Doyle,” said Bodie pointedly.**

**“I was hoping we could have dinner together. At a pub, maybe. My treat.”**

**Bodie’s eyes narrowed. He knew Doyle well enough already to know that he didn’t lightly offer to buy anyone a meal.**

**“You like Chinese?” persisted Doyle. “We could get take away, bring it to your place.”**

**“Why?” asked Bodie bluntly.**

**“I want to talk.”**

**“About the case?”**

**“About us.”**

**“There is no ‘us’.”**

**“About the price of tea in China, then. C’mon, Bodie.” As Bodie still looked implacable and had not unlocked the door of his Capri, Doyle added, “I don’t like corpses and I don’t like thinking we could’ve found him alive if we’d been quicker. I need to unwind. All right?”**

**Bodie paused. He wanted to say “no”. That was the wise answer, the answer he knew he should make. But he was beginning to fear that he might not be able to refuse Doyle anything. He clung to his anger because it was the only thing that could save him, and he knew it was a thin and flimsy defence that would not save him at all.**

**“All right,” he said, and unlocked the car for Doyle.**

**They did not discuss where they were going. Doyle reached over and turned on the radio, leaning against the door, watching Bodie’s profile as he drove. Bodie tried to ignore him. In his peripheral vision, he could see Doyle sitting with one knee raised, a deliciously sexy pose. He thought for a moment of ordering Doyle out of the car, or taking him back to the station and sending him home. It would be satisfying to his pride, but he knew he couldn’t do it.**

**The pub was largely populated by the noisy young, a lively crowd. “Why here?” asked Doyle.**

**“Good food,” said Bodie. “Order me a steak and kidney pie, will you? With extra chips.”**

**“Don’t mind putting on the weight, do you?”**

**“Jogging fuel.” Bodie found a place they could sit at a corner bench. He put his arms along the padded back of the bench, and leaned his head back, watching Doyle through slitted eyes as he went to the bar. The worn denim jeans fit his arse like kid leather and he stood in a pose that made the most of it. There ought to be a law.**

**You don’t have to look, he told himself.**

**Like hell I don’t, he answered himself.**

**Doyle brought two pints of lager to the table, and went back for their plates. He had the ploughman’s lunch, which Bodie glanced at disdainfully as he plunged his fork into the thick, steaming crust.**

**Doyle said, “You didn’t say much about Finlay’s death.”**

**“What’s to say? I don’t like failing, but we can’t always succeed. I don’t like seeing a decent man murdered, either.”**

**“Assuming he was a decent man.”**

**“Wasn’t he? We haven’t found any evidence he wasn’t.”**

**“No. But how did the killers know he was the man they wanted? Who knew what he knew? Who sold him out?”**

**“A leak?” guessed Bodie.**

**Doyle shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe. I don’t like the smell of this case . . . . Putrid, like his corpse. Maybe you’re used to it. You probably see more death by violence than I do.”**

**“Probably,” agreed Bodie. He did not point out the irony of this comment from a man on the homicide squad. Since Doyle was looking at him expectantly while he ate his cheese without enthusiasm or appetite, Bodie added, “I don’t like death, but it happens. You deal with it as best you can.”**

**“Did you ever see anyone you really loved die?”**

**“Yeah.”**

**“Who?”**

**“Watched my girl’s head shot off once.”**

**“Jesus.” Doyle was flustered. He clearly hadn’t expected that answer.**

**“Happened.” It still had the power to hurt, but the concern in Doyle’s eyes struck like flame to his heart. He looked away. He couldn’t afford this.**

**“What do you want?” he asked bluntly.**

**Doyle swallowed the cheese, played with a bit of bread. “Told you yesterday. And this morning.” He met Bodie’s stony glare. “I meant what I said about wanting you. Changed my mind about the can’t. I want you to take me home and take me to bed.”**

**“You bastard.” Bodie was angrier than ever.**

**Doyle shook his head. “We want the same thing. Don’t we?”**

**“Dunno what you want. I know what I don’t want.”**

**“What?”**

**“To be teased, or treated like a whore, or a toy. I’m not here for your prurient curiosity and I don’t want to be your diversion if you’ve a case of seven year itch. So you’re bored with Cheryl, you want to play the wild side a little. You guessed I liked doing it with men as much as women. You noticed I like your looks. Turns you on, that. So you chat me up, play a game, talk yourself into wanting it. I’m not interested.”**

**“It’s not like that.”**

**“No? What is it, then?”**

**“I’m not bored with Cheryl.”**

**“Wonderful. Go home, then.”**

**“Can’t. I phoned Cheryl after we got back to the station. Told her there’d been a homicide, and I’d be so late I’d rather spend the night in the City. Said I’d be home tomorrow.”**

**Bodie raised his eyebrows. “You do this often?”**

**“I never did it before. Listen, Bodie, you may not want to say what you want, but I can guess. Or at least I can tell you what I’m offering, and that’s more than sex games on the quiet. It’s more than exploitation of a friendship. I know it’s impossible, but I love you, Bodie. I love you as much as I’ve ever loved anyone.”**

**“What about Cheryl?”**

**“What about her?”**

**“You’re married to her, for Christ’s sake!”**

**“I’ve never been unfaithful to her before. But . . . I never fell in love with anyone else but her before either. I love her Bodie, but . . . .” He dropped his voice. “I need you. I do.”**

**“So? What will you tell her? The truth?”**

**“Lies.”**

**“Doyle--”**

**“Listen, it’s my marriage: what’s between me and Cheryl is for us to sort out. I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to hurt her, don’t want to lose her, and it’s already a lie, isn’t it, not telling her what I feel about you? And what would that do but hurt her? I’ve been thinking of you every moment I’m not thinking about the case. Since I met you, you’ve become the most important person in my life. I run with you every morning because it’s an excuse to see you, I’ve never run so regularly before. I don’t even want this case to be solved, because then we won’t be working together any more.” He looked at his plate of food. “Want to fuck you,” he said again, dropping his voice. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”**

**Bodie looked at him searchingly, trying to read something in the imploring eyes. Then he looked away, flushed, disturbed. He downed his drink, ignoring Doyle’s fixed stare. He had made no answer. “I need another beer,” said Bodie, and escaped to the bar to order it.**

**When he came back, Doyle watched him sit down, and said, “When we saw Finlay’s body, I thought about things. It was blindingly clear to me that if I never took you to bed I’d regret it all my life.”**

**“A one-night stand?” said Bodie. “Just tonight? Never again?”**

**Doyle said desperately, “What else can it be? Can’t you grab the moment? Are you letting your pride stop you? Don’t you feel as I do?”**

**“Yes,” said Bodie.**

**It was capitulation. Doyle reached out and squeezed his hand, then let go of it.**

**It was capitulation of the most demeaning kind, and it filled Bodie with happiness.**

**Doyle had never thought of himself as sexually naVve. Before he had married Cheryl, he had his share of women, perhaps more than his share. There’d been some good times, none of which he particularly regretted. Nor had he regretted marrying and settling down to middle-class monogamous respectability. It was important to him that he be a good husband.**

**So what had gone wrong?**

**Bodie: the powerful frame, the dangerous sense of humour, the sensuous, straying hands. He had been trapped by his own cycle of emotions before he had time to think about it. He had gone home after that first day spent working with Bodie, with his mind full of a new set of unbidden, fascinating images. The pleasure of his company had been so powerful that he had sought it out after hours --the drink at the pub, the idle chatter about sports and books. And then before hours --running every morning alongside the murky Thames. His friendship with Bodie should work him into better shape, if nothing else.**

**He had been lost in the implications before he understood what they were. But even from the beginning he had known that this was something more than friendship, and an attraction less than innocent.**

**He had, perhaps, wanted friendship with a man of familiar skills and equal intelligence. The humour, the courage, the sensuality had been icing on the cake. Before he knew what had happened to him, friendship had become another order of thing entirely, something burning and intense, so brilliant it hurt the mind’s eye, but which drew him like the sun.**

**A physical awareness of Bodie had taken over his mind, playing havoc with his senses and his sense. It had nothing to do with what he felt for Cheryl. He loved Cheryl, without doubt and without reservation. Oh, they had their fights, but he’d never regretted his unusually happy marriage. She was bright and good-natured, shameless in bed, loving to the children. He considered himself a lucky man.**

**Only a fool or a madman would put that life at risk for a kinky fling with an intelligence agent. It could destroy his personal life; it would most likely destroy his career; there was no reason to do it and every reason not to.**

**He was a fool and a madman. He couldn’t get Bodie out of his head or his imagination. He itched to touch him. Once, he had given in to the impulse. When Bodie had held him in the warehouse, he had melted and all but exploded, his desire so overwhelming it was unknown in his experience.**

**He could not rationalize it. The madness of obsession. Lust so powerful that it made everything else in life seem trivial. And it wasn’t just lust, it was friendship and love and respect and desire all wrapped up together. A driving need he could not ignore, but felt he must.**

**He didn’t mind about Bodie being a man. He’d never thought of himself as gay, but he’d never particularly shied away from the idea. When he’d been young, he’d had a few rather profound friendships --nothing sexual about them, or so he’d thought. Now he wasn’t so sure.**

**He’d had a notion that sex was like a corridor with two open doors. If he went for men, the door of the other room would forever be shut to him. He wouldn’t be able to marry, have children, live the life he wanted to live. If he let that happen, what would he have instead? He did not know. There was no one to tell him what now seemed obvious: that both doors could be kept open.**

**He hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell Bodie about Cheryl. Sheer bloody terror had prevented him. He had been afraid of losing the look he saw in Bodie’s eyes, which promised an equal return of the lust, the love, the more-than-friendship that was coming to mean so much to him. That, and a gentle kiss. It wasn’t much, compared to his longings. But if he had told him earlier about Cheryl, he would not have had any of that. And he could not find the words to explain. I love you. I’m married. I don’t know what to do.**

**Instead he had taken Bodie home, to let him meet Cheryl. He had hoped or feared that once he saw them together, he could put things in perspective, realise that his love for Cheryl and his own sense of fidelity --of honour --of decency was greater than any wild infatuation.**

**Seeing Bodie in his home, black with fury and stiff with pain, he had loved him all the more.**

**Where does love come from? he wondered. He had not asked for this. Life was complicated enough. His work may have been considerably less than he had hoped --a promising young career at the Met was rolling fast to a dead halt under the regressive authority of Brace --but his home life had been all he had ever hoped for. Vague youthful fantasies of other men had been all but forgotten as the years went by with Cheryl. Who would have thought that piercing blue eyes and an agent’s macho attitude would have turned his life upside down?**

**He would have thought anyone mad to suggest it, or himself mad for considering the possibility.**

**But love can be a kind of madness, and a seductive one. How can a man resist the lure of something he has always wanted, without realising it? How can a man turn away from someone without whom his life seems empty?**

**He had spent a sleepless night worrying about it. Worrying, and fantasizing about Bodie. Somehow Bodie’s anger made him more irresistible than ever. He could understand that anger, even cherish it. His own anger as he had fought him off in the hallway had been mainly with himself, for loving the contact, wanting it, needing it.**

**When the case was over, he and Bodie would go their separate ways, and he could forget him. Pretend this stupidity had never existed.**

**And then . . . .**

**Seeing Finlay dead, he had suddenly realised that he was looking at it entirely backwards.**

**His love for Bodie was the single most important fact of his existence. It did not diminish his love for his wife or his family. It did not sully his honour, or his masculinity, or his fidelity. It added a dimension to the best of him. It was noble and true --physical, yes, but in the finest sense. It was a part of him, and to reject it was self-mutilation.**

**The revelation stunned him. He thought it over, and could not make sense of it. He did not believe it. He could not believe it, and yet, there is was: truth as patent as any he had ever faced.**

**Love, the most complex of all life’s factors, was not a pliant, co-operative creature. It was not benign. It bent lives into shape and out of it, it moved armies to war and men to madness, it created lives and destroyed them. And he was in its grip.**

**To concede . . . yes, to concede its power was triumph by submission. He would allow himself Bodie. One night of this ecstasy, forbidden, foolish, perhaps even fatal, if it were discovered, but necessary. It was more important than anything else he could imagine.**

**One night was all he could afford, but he could afford that.**

**So he had phoned Cheryl, and made an excuse about work, and set out to seduce Bodie.**

**Bodie was still angry about last night. He was stiff, careful not to touch Doyle, while he had been all convivial touches (if not roving hands) from the beginning. I can woo him, thought Doyle. I can make  
him want me again. He knows the price, now. He knows my position. He must only see that this compulsion is part of both of us. If we don’t find each other now, we will regret it forever. **

**So he had said it. “Want to fuck you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.” His heart was pounding with love, with need and fear. And Bodie, his mouth hard, wanted this as much as Doyle wanted it but was afraid to believe it, afraid of another colossal isappointment. How much could he sustain?**

**But he had said yes. And he had smiled a warm, loving smile that made Doyle’s heart melt and his pulse race. Those blue eyes, fringed by dark, thick lashes, shone with sensuous anticipation and warmth.**

**In a pub, they could not touch. They hardly needed to. The feelings were mutual, they did not need touch to share it. And yet they needed touch most of all, and soon it would come. The anticipation of it was headier than drink or drugs.**

**They discussed the case, and talked inconsequentialities. The case; the weather; what Doyle might get Sarah for her birthday, which was coming up soon. Bodie toyed with his mug, and kept looking at Doyle in an innocuous way that nevertheless made Doyle’s hand shake. To be aroused like this in a public place was a kick in itself, and why? Because of this wonderful, unique, terrifying man who without hesitation had turned him head over heels.**

**“Wanna go?” asked Bodie.**

**“Wanna come,” said Doyle.**

**Bodie laughed. They went out side by side to the car. As he got to it, shielded from view by the other cars, Bodie ran his fingers over Doyle’s arse. It was intoxicating. Doyle leaned against the car, looking up at the stars. “There’s Cassiopaeia,” he said.**

**Bodie was looking at him, not the sky. “You like stars?”**

**“Yeah. They connect us to time.”**

**“Time?”**

**“Look at them. We’re looking at billions of years ago. And thousands of years ago, our ancestors looked at them too, gave them names.”**

**“They were different then,” said Bodie. “Everything changes.”**

**“But they are the same stars. The very same. Moved a little, but the same. They tie us directly to our past as a race, and to our past as a part of the universe.”**

**Bodie, smiling, went to the driver’s seat and got in. Doyle, filled with trepidation and excitement, sat in the passenger’s seat. Bodie did not start the car. He looked speculatively at Doyle.**

**“What?” said Doyle. He started to laugh. “You think I’m a berk? What?”**

**“No.” Bodie started the car. “I think you’re wise and wonderful. I love a man who can philosophize about the stars with a raging hard-on.”**

**“For you,” said Doyle. “You inspire me.”**

**“That’s encouraging.” Bodie smiled at him as he rounded the corner. The pub was near Bodie’s flat and it took little time to go there, park, go inside. And while this was happening Doyle’s mind was singing a litany of: we’re going to do it, we’re really going to do it, I’m going to have him. And: tonight is ours, just ours.**

**Doyle’s hands were shaking in anticipation. He followed Bodie into the darkened room, watched him turn on a few lights, take off his jacket. Underneath it he wore a brown shirt. His trousers were tight-fitting tan corduroy. Doyle liked the way he looked, the way he moved. Every motion promised wonders.**

**There was no shyness or hesitation between them. Bodie came to Doyle and put his arms around him, and kissed him on the mouth. It was not gentle and light, like the kiss after Bodie was beaten. It was demanding and strong, and forced reciprocation. Bodie sucked his tongue and nibbled his lips as if to consume him. Overcome by a rush of lust, Doyle staggered, fell back against the door, and Bodie was there with him, jamming his body against it, rubbing his crotch with his pelvis, using his hands to loosen and  
unbutton clothes. **

**Bodie lifted his head, breathless. “What’d you do to me?” he asked. “You’re a walking, breathing aphrodisiac, mate.”**

**“No holds barred,” said Doyle touching Bodie’s face. He was shaking again with desire. He felt lightheaded with happiness. Bodie peeled back his shirt, fingers tweaking and twisting his nipple. Doyle groaned and thrust against Bodie. Bodie caught his hips in a wide-fingered hand and with light and teasing movements unzipped his fly. His fingers were practised and assured as they reached in and teased Doyle’s cock. Free, released, it had a life of its own in Bodie’s hand. Doyle groaned softly.**

**Bodie smiled. He moved his hands to warmly touch Doyle’s bum, to touch the skin, peeling the denim of the jeans back and down. He bent to run his lips over the cockhead, his lips as warm and soft as Doyle had imagined, but unexpectedly firm.**

**Doyle threw his head back against the door, his body from head to toe reacting to this unimaginably exciting awareness. Then Bodie’s lips moved to his thigh, to his leg.**

**Bodie’s warm hands were busy, taking Doyle’s boot and pulling it off his foot, first the right, then reaching to caress his cock, then the left boot, with Doyle leaning and gasping precariously against the door. He peeled Doyle’s jeans down so he could step out of them. He pulled off Doyle’s socks, running his hands over Doyle’s sensitive bare feet.**

**Doyle stood against the door, outlined as if in a frame, naked except for his loose unbuttoned shirt. His eyes ran over Bodie, kneeling soft-eyed before him. “Undress,” he said huskily.**

**“In the bedroom,” said Bodie. He stood and stepped backwards one step, his eyes not leaving Doyle. He took another step, slow, eager, graceful. Expectant.**

**Then he turned and walked to the bedroom, turning on the lamp beside the bed.**

**Doyle followed.**

**Bodie’s flat was luxurious in its size, by London standards. It was not a new building, and the architect had indulged in the elegance of space: wide, arched doors, high ceilings, cornices. Neat to the point of being impersonal, furnished simply and cheaply, the front room nevertheless had hints to the nature of Bodie the man: guns on the wall, magazine pictures of cars tacked up with tape, a Hindu relief of antique sensuality, a poster for a production of Antigone.**

**The bedroom too was impeccably orderly, nothing like the customary mess Doyle and Cheryl generated and, on a good week, picked up every few days. The picture on the wall here was a sensuous Nagel print of a woman in a yellow jacket.**

**Bodie started to unbutton his shirt, but Doyle said, “No. Don’t. Let me.”**

**Bodie stood waiting, his shadowed eyes watching Doyle’s every move. Slowly, Doyle reached under the shirt and ran his hand over Bodie’s ribs, leaving the buttons intact. He could feel the bruises, and he moved his fingers gently over them. Then he ran his hands back down, and unbuttoned the first button, and the second, running his fingers again over the skin underneath. Warm skin. Skin that moved with the force of heavy breathing, the beat of an excited heart.**

**He reached the third button. Bodie whispered, “Ray. I’ve had blow jobs that were less arousing than this.”**

**Doyle chucked, a deep, evil chuckle. He ran his fingers back down to the trousers, to the crotch. “You might be right,” he said. He ran his fingers back up; the fourth button, and then the last. Bodie’s holster held the shirt on his shoulders, so he just pulled back the cloth in the centre, breathing gently over the line of the breastbone, downwards. He said, “You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen.”**

**Bodie reached for his zip, but Doyle was there first, pulling it down. He found and held the cock in his hands, shocked into sudden silence by the feel of it. He looked at it, hefted it, guessing its weight. Bodie moved his head back, sighing with the touch. Doyle said, “You’re big.”**

**“That’s your doing.”**

**Doyle pulled the trousers down off his hips, and his arse, and the underpants too. He ran his fingers over his cheeks, and down below, to finger his balls. Then he ran his hands lightly down the inside of his thighs, pulling the trousers lower and lower, following the line of touch with his lips. Bodie raised one foot, then the other, and he was bare below the waist.**

**“Beautiful,” said Doyle again, kneeling beside him. He rubbed his cheek against the cock, feeling a trail of wet precum against his face. This was a foreign act, one of those forbidden things he had thought he would never experience, exciting in theory, unthinkable in practice.**

**He was not here to think, but to feel.**

**And now he was here, with a naked and aroused Bodie, and to touch him was exquisite. “I could drown in you,” he said. He captured Bodie’s shaft in his hands, licked it end to end. Bodie watched him, breathing heavily.**

**Doyle said, “Can I fuck you?”**

**“Yeah,” said Bodie. He began to unbuckle the holster, but his fingers fumbled and Doyle stood, unbuckling it for him, realising as he did so what trust this implied, that Bodie would let him handle and take his gun. He put it carefully on the chair, and pulled the shirt off Bodie’s shoulders, watching with pleasure as the cloth ran down the dark-haired masculine arms. He ran his fingers up and down those arms, letting his cock touch Bodie’s, keeping the rest of his body two inches away. “It’s like discovering paradise,” he said.**

**“You didn’t discover it. You’re creating it,” said Bodie. “Making it for me.”**

**“Yeah. Gonna make it with you.” He flicked his tongue over Bodie’s nipple, realising as he did so that Bodie was close to the edge. He put his fingers hard around the base of Bodie’s erection and squeezed. “Not yet,” he said.**

**Bodie somehow groaned and chuckled at the same time. “Slave-driver.”**

**“How many times you think you can come tonight?”**

**“Dunno.”**

**“I’m going to put it to the test.” He pushed Bodie onto the bed, straddling him, rubbing his balls.**

**Bodie said, “Kiss me again.”**

**He kissed Bodie’s lips, his hand never ceasing in its fondling of his cock. He kissed his ears and face and hair, and started sucking on an earlobe, without letting his hand stop its random motions. “I’m almost there,” said Bodie.**

**Doyle smiled down at him. “Impatient, hmm? Let go, then, love. I’ll make you hard again so fast you’ll think it was impossible.”**

**Bodie whimpered and Doyle moved his hand harder and faster. “I could stop now,” he said. “But you want it, don’t you? You like my hand. You like my body.”**

**“Yes.” His eyes shut, his face straining, Bodie dropped his head back, arching his body.**

**“Just wait,” said Doyle, “till I’m inside you.”**

**Bodie climaxed. His mouth was open, his eyes closed, his body overtaken by physical compulsions. Doyle lowered his head and drank the cum, sucking on the cock and rubbing his tongue along it. He was excited by his own actions, all the things he had never done, as if he had suddenly stepped into someone else’s life. He had never before quite conceived how sexy it would be to see another man in orgasm. Not just any other man, but Bodie, tough, urbane Bodie, reduced to his most primal self and glorious with it.**

**The spasms ceased. Bodie lay still for a moment. His cock had shrunk and Doyle continued to lap at it.**

**Bodie said, “Let me do for you.”**

**“No,” said Doyle. He replaced his mouth with his hand, and shifted to wetly kiss Bodie’s shoulder. “Not to rush the agenda or anything. We have all night. But I’m going to fuck you, remember?”**

**“I remember,” said Bodie. He ran fingers down Doyle’s chest, grazing nipples, watching them with interest. “Thought you said you weren’t experienced with men?”**

**“I’m not. You’re my first.”**

**Bodie glanced at him, slit-eyed. “You having me on?”**

**“Absolute truth. So help me God.”**

**“Fuck.” Bodie closed his eyes. “You’re the wonder of the world, then. Most aggressive virgin I ever met.”**

**“Did a little reading,” admitted Doyle. “Been thinking about things a lot. Thinking about you. Thinking about what it’ll be like when I’m inside you. Got any cream or something?”**

**“In the drawer by the bed.”**

**“I’ll get it soon, then. Don’t need it yet.” They lay in relaxed and random caresses, enjoying the chance to touch so intimately and casually. Doyle’s hand returned to Bodie’s cock, moving gently. He caught his breath at what Bodie was doing to his nipple. “Pretty experienced, are you?”**

**“I’ve done this a few times,” said Bodie lightly. He moved his head to work at Doyle’s nipple with his mouth and teeth. He lifted his head, surveying the results of his efforts in the hard, darkened point. His hands, moving playfully, were caressing Doyle’s arse, alternately squeezing and stretching his cheeks. “Never felt quite like this, though.” He returned his mouth to his handiwork, and sucked hard and for a long time.**

**Doyle ran his hands over Bodie’s back and his head, gasping at the sensations being driven through him. “How?”**

**Bodie’s hands did not stop, but he lifted his face from Doyle’s chest to look at his face while he answered. “Love. Stupefying love.”**

**“Good word for it.” Doyle grinned. “Dunno which of us is the most stupefied.”**

**Bodie held his gaze locked on Doyle. One hand returned to a nipple, pinched it hard. His cock was growing in Doyle’s hand.**

**“You usually like to be top, or bottom?” Doyle asked.**

**“Depends.”**

**“On what?”**

**“Mood. My partner. What I feel like. How long it’s been.”**

**“And how long has it been?”**

**Bodie thought. “Two years. Two and a half years.”**

**“Was it good?”**

**“Yeah. Yeah, it was good.”**

**“And you’re ready for it again.”**

**“Yeah.”**

**“Soon.” Bodie’s cock had jumped at the question, and he gave it a reproving tap. “Who’s rushing, now?”**

**Doyle kissed Bodie’s hands, letting them roam over his face. “Tell me what it’s like?”**

**“What?”**

**“Having a man inside you.”**

**“Can’t describe it. Feels good. Feels hot. Feels . . . full.”**

**“Way with words, you have. Must be a poet.”**

**Bodie laughed again, rolling over, reaching for the drawer by the bed. One-handed, he fumbled for the tube of lubricant, as Doyle ran light hands over his back, tracing his scars. “What caused this?”**

**“Knife.”**

**“And this one?”**

**“Knife.”**

**“And this?”**

**“Guess.”**

**“You have a habit of backing into knives?”**

**“Made a few rough enemies, that’s all.” He rolled onto his back again, pouring wet, viscous liquid onto his hand. “Come here.” He took Doyle’s cock in his hand, smoothed the substance over it.**

**“It’s like finger-painting,” said Doyle.**

**“Spoken like a father.” Bodie continued to work him with his hands. Doyle said, “Who’s doing who, here?” He shuddered. Bodie sat, moving closer. He put an arm around his waist, pulling their bodies together, running lips along Doyle’s chest.**

**“Whatever you like,” he said, sucking a nipple again. It was still hard from his previous ministrations. His other hand continued to play with Doyle’s cock.**

**Doyle said huskily, “Roll over, then.”**

**“Isn’t there a song like that?” Doyle didn’t smile and he added, “Rub some on me, too.” He turned around to kneel on the bed with his back towards Doyle, leaning on his hands against the wall. “How’s this?”**

**“Beautiful,” breathed Doyle. He leaned back on his heels to look at Bodie, and took the lubricant, rubbing it on his fingers. He reached for Bodie’s arse, and Bodie arched his back a little, making it easier for him in anticipation. Doyle ran his dry hand over the cheeks, spreading him with his fingers. He gently put the jelly, warmed to skin temperature from his fingers, on Bodie’s arsehole, and moved his fingers against the outside, rubbing in a circular motion. Bodie was shaking slightly, he was happy to see. His  
own mouth was dry. He let the finger slip in, felt the muscle tighten around him as he saw the tip disappear. It looked and felt unbearably sexy. He moved the finger up and down. **

**“Hurry,” said Bodie.**

**“Let me explore the territory a little,” said Doyle. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Maybe you’d like another finger?”**

**“Yeah.” Bodie was barely breathing.**

**He pushed in the index finger of the other hand, felt the skin stretch and expand, heard the hiss of Bodie’s breath, saw the motion Bodie made against him as he rubbed them back and forth against each other.**

**“Harder,” said Bodie, his voice tight.**

**So Doyle took out his fingers and put his hands on Bodie’s hips and put his cockhead to his arse. It was a little like jumping out of an aeroplane. First you didn’t know why anyone would want to do it, then you couldn’t imagine why they would want to do anything else. He stretched forward and kissed the nape of Bodie’s bent neck, as Bodie had kissed him in that warehouse, where he had almost driven him mad.**

**Then he plunged in.**

**Unfamiliar territory, but familiar too. The tight softness around his cock. The warmth of Bodie’s back against his chest, Bodie’s hair against his face, Bodie’s heaving breath, the sheen of sweat on his skin. Doyle licked at it, found his taste salty and delectable, began to lick his shoulder and his shoulder blade as he let one hand wander from Bodie’s waist to rub a nipple. He thrust, tentatively, and Bodie groaned. Doyle lifted his head. “Do you like it?” he whispered into Bodie’s ear.**

**“Yes,” Bodie whispered. Louder, he said, “More.”**

**So Doyle thrust harder, and then harder still, finding it increasingly difficult to think or to control his movements or to separate one movement, one sensation from another, or even to tell which feelings were Bodie’s and which were his own. He groaned, and couldn’t tell if the groan was his, or Bodie’s, or if the one groan came from two mouths. He found a rhythm, got caught up in it, immersed in the wonder of flesh within flesh, greedy for more.**

**“Harder,” said Bodie, distinctly. His hands against the wall were white with pressure. “Hold my cock.”**

**Instead, Doyle fondled his balls, and let the cock go begging. Bodie opened his mouth in a silent cry and Doyle took his hand from the nipple to put fingers into Bodie’s mouth, feeling the hard-tensed tongue and the wet lips. Bodie closed his mouth and sucked, hard. The effects made Doyle gasp. He tried to recover control, but it was too late. He climaxed with a grunt, suddenly gripping Bodie’s cock in a hard, grasping fist, and he felt Bodie’s cum run hot over his hand just as he felt it running hot from inside  
him into Bodie’s receptive body. **

**After a while, Bodie put his forehead against the wall, as if his hands had lost the power to hold him up. The tremors running through his body were slower now, but Doyle could feel them, along the length of his own shrinking cock, urging it to stay. He pulled his fingers from Bodie’s mouth and held him in both arms, feeling the deep movement from under his ribs. He pulled Bodie back against him, lowering him slowly to the bed.**

**They lay side by side.**

**“It’s like colours,” said Bodie. “It’s like morning on a sunny day. It’s like everything you ever wanted.”**

**“Ah,” said Doyle. “Poetry.”**

**“Tactile poetry, sunshine.”**

**There was a long, relaxed silence. Bodie said, “Was it what you wanted?”**

**“Christ, Bodie, it was fantastic. Better than I’d dreamed.”**

**“Knew you’d be good,” said Bodie. “Knew it that first day.”**

**They slept in each other’s company, drifting asleep on the awareness of the other’s presence, fingers lightly touching skin, relaxation superseding arousal without diminishing it. Bodie wondered as he drifted off, whether he ought to feel so happy. The last time he had attempted sex with someone who had a spouse, he had seen her die before his eyes, killed on the orders of the husband she had betrayed. He did not think Cheryl would kill for the infidelity, but did that not, perhaps, make it worse? That he had led Doyle to this, selfishly, callously, but no, not unfeelingly.**

**This might ruin Doyle’s life, one way or another. He could feel no regret, only this intense and overwhelming love that had consumed him since they met.**

**The cost of love, too high to reckon.**

**Halfway through the night, Bodie woke to find Doyle’s mouth on his hard cock. Mumbling, he wrapped his legs around Doyle’s back. “Takin’ advantage of me in my sleep, Ray?”**

**Doyle chuckled, which set up an entirely new set of sensations. He raised his head. “Woke up. You were hard as Cleopatra’s Needle, almost as big. Had to do something about it, didn’t I?”**

**“Long as you’re happy,” said Bodie, mesmerized by the look of Doyle’s wet lips.**

**“Yeah.” Looking down, Doyle ran a finger along the ridge on the top of his shaft, tracing veins.**

**“Your cock’s fascinating. Everything about it.”**

**“It likes you,” said Bodie.**

**“Yeah, well, I like the way it likes me. I like everything about it. And you. I like the way you taste, the way you look, the way you move, the way you get hard and stay hard and get hard again.” He wrapped his mouth around it once more, as far as he could go. Bodie closed his eyes, riding on the awareness. Talented lips and patient hands and the strong tongue worked their magic. They were in no hurry. After a while he came, smooth and hard, letting it happen. Doyle coughed, raised his head, let the cream flow out of his mouth onto Bodie’s abdomen. “Couldn’t swallow,” he said, gasping. Bodie soothed him with a hand gently stroking his hair. He rubbed his hand over the wetness on his body, and bent, rubbing it over Doyle’s cock, which was large and toweringly erect.**

**“That’s okay, love,” he said. “All you need is practice.”**

**“Don’t think so.” Doyle was amused, his voice deep with it. “Not likely to be doing this again any time soon, with anyone else.”**

**“Not with anyone else,” agreed Bodie.**

**“No, mate. Tonight and tonight only. That’s why I don’t want to stop.”**

**“Yeah, well, seems to me I’m ahead three to one.”**

**“It’s not an orgasm challenge.”**

**“Oh, I wasn’t complaining.” He pulled Doyle up tight against him, so Doyle was between his legs, his back to Bodie’s chest. He reached down and held Doyle’s cock, his hand tight at the base, his other hand running around the shaft, slick with his semen and Bodie’s saliva. His leg over Doyle’s, he used his heel to put gentle pressure on Doyle’s balls. The cock rested against his leg, as he worked up and down it with his hand.**

**Then he moved sideways, letting Doyle lie back on the bed. He bent over him, hand busy. He kissed him with soft lips, breathing against his mouth, the soft, moist touch almost imperceptible. Doyle pressed up against his mouth and he let him, thrusting his tongue in, hard, then pulling it out again, pulling back, denying Doyle. Doyle dropped his head back on the bed, eyes glazed with too much pleasure. Bodie kissed him again, gently at first, then harder, opening his mouth with his tongue, touching inside his mouth and then retreating. Doyle groaned softly, reaching for Bodie’s shoulders, holding him with his hands.**

**Bodie kissed his neck, lingering sensuously. He touched a nipple. “You like being sucked here, Ray?”**

**“Dunno. It felt good a little while ago.”**

**“Cheryl doesn’t do it?”**

**“Never asked her to.”**

**Bodie touched the other nipple. “Or here? You like this? I think you do. Look how hard you get, so fast. Your cock reacts when I do that, did you know?”**

**“No. Yes,” said Doyle moving his head from side to side. “Don’t stop.”**

**“But we’ve hardly started yet. I know a thousand things I can do to your body and you’ll like every one of them.” He bent his head, nuzzling Doyle’s chest. “We could invent a few more.”**

**Doyle gasped as Bodie took the nipple between his lips and teeth, and pulled with the soft pressure. Then he did the same on the other side. “I’m going to suck your tits hard,” he said, and did so, while his hand moved faster on his cock, and after a minute Doyle was exploding, his cum splattering Bodie’s side and back and possibly, he thought, with a non-functional brain, possibly even the ceiling.**

**They lay side by side, cooling off, their fingers intertwined. Doyle said, “Bodie? What’s it like to be bi?”**

**Bodie laughed. “You tell me.”**

**There was a short silence. Accustomed to the darkness in the room, Doyle could just make out the shape of Bodie’s face, the profile classic and yet unique, a profile such as he had never seen on any face but Bodie’s.**

**“It’s all so new to me,” said Doyle softly, with wonder. “Didn’t think I’d ever . . . .” He lapsed into thoughtfulness.**

**“But you wanted to?”**

**“Not much. Not often. Not to think about it. Not till I met you.”**

**“Lucky thing you met me, then,” said Bodie.**

**Bodie woke Doyle gently, with kisses. The room was still dark, but the dim light outside the window indicated that it was almost dawn. “Time to get up,” he said.**

**Doyle sought and found his mouth, and held it in a hard kiss. When he let go, “Which part of me?” he asked, with an evil chuckle.**

**“All of you, you randy devil.” Bodie gave him a friendly slap on the rump and rolled out of bed, stretching.**

**Doyle watched appreciatively, noticing that Bodie’s cock was half-hard even after the night he’d given it. He rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands, and watched as Bodie reached for his dressing gown on the back of the door, shivering a little in the cool morning air. “Stop staring,” said Bodie, enjoying every second. “We need to wash before running.”**

**“Running?”**

**“Running,” said Bodie firmly. He disappeared across the hall, going into the bathroom.**

**Doyle groaned. He rolled onto his back, running his hands over his face. “You’re inhuman, that’s what it is. You’re an alien from the planet Krypton.”**

**Bodie reappeared in the doorway. He’d used the loo, and set the hot water running from the shower-head over his tub. “You want to go first?”**

**“Together,” said Doyle. He got up, ignoring the fact that his legs felt rubbery and his most recent erection had only partially subsided. He took Bodie’s wrist in his grasp and led him back to the bathroom. Bodie did not resist. Doyle glanced at himself in the mirror, made a face at his tousled reflection, and let go of Bodie’s arm. He peed, without much satisfaction, as Bodie put his arms around him and kissed the back of his ear. Most distracting. He gave up and flushed the toilet. He pushed aside the shower curtain, stepped into the cool falling water, and held out his arms for Bodie to follow.**

**Then they were kissing, with the water flowing over them. Doyle was used to warmer water, so he pressed his body harder against Bodie’s, for warmth and because he liked how it made him feel. “You want it again,” said Bodie, laughing against his mouth. “You bloody well want it again.”**

**“Won’t take long. It’s good in a shower. Don’t have to wash off afterwards.”**

**Bodie’s lips roamed his neck and face. “Want me to show you what it’s like?” he whispered. “To have a cock inside you?”**

**Doyle’s breath caught.**

**Smiling, Bodie looked at him. “You may not be sure,” he said, “but your body likes the idea.” He soothed water over Doyle’s suddenly-growing penis, letting a trickle dribble from his hand.**

**“Yeah,” said Doyle, thinking about it some more, shaken by what the thought made him feel. “Yeah, I like the idea. I think I like the idea. I think I . . . I think I want it.”**

**“No rush. If you aren’t sure, we can do it later. Next week. Next month. Next year.”**

**“No!” said Doyle. “Now or never.”**

**“Your choice,” said Bodie.**

**“Now.”**

**Bodie moved behind him, their bodies touching lengthwise. He spread Doyle’s legs with his hands, so Doyle, braced against the wall, had the water cascading down his chest and over his erection.**

**The feeling was delicious. Doyle was shaking with it, or perhaps with nerves because of what Bodie was about to do. Bodie ran delicate hands down his back. Tough as he was, he could be gentle, the calloused and muscular hands taking on the precision and delicacy of the artist.**

**He said softly, so Doyle could hardly hear his voice through the pounding of the water and his own excited heart, “I’ll try not to hurt you, but if there’s pain, it won’t be much, and it will pass. Just relax around me. Go with it.”**

**“Yeah,” said Doyle. He braced himself. His cock felt huge and distended and Bodie had hardly touched him. This turned him on so much, this unexpected coda, this delicious wet game. He could feel the water at his arse, where Bodie’s fingers spread him and touched him, feeling around as if to learn the territory, first outside, then inside. He cried out in shock and pleasure. The touch was at first familiar, then unfamiliar, strange, erotic, unimaginable, half discomfort, half bliss. He didn’t know what it was.**

**“Now,” said Bodie, and plunged into him, hard.**

**There was no quarter given, no mercy for his virginity, no time for him to make Bodie stop, if that had been what he wanted. But it wasn’t. The phenomenon was of such a magnitude that he could not speak, could not identify this as pain or pleasure, could not react. He was impaled and dying of it.**

**Then the sensation resolved itself into motion, and Bodie was moving inside him, holding him upright around the waist, or he might have fallen already. Bodie was making soothing noises, “That’s right, Doyle, you’re so hot and good, you’re marvellous, take me inside, yes, that’s it, don’t stop,” talking to himself and to Doyle at the same time, his words degenerating into an incoherent mumble. His face rested in the crook of Doyle’s neck, water pouring from his face and hair against Doyle’s shoulder, where Doyle  
could feel the heat of his mouth. **

**Doyle could not think. He was hardly conscious, hardly human: something living and primal, a receptacle for the being that was Bodie, wanting as much as he was wanted. Some associated memory surfaced from the night before and he gasped, “Harder,” hardly knowing what he meant, unaware of the word itself but only of the need that drove him to speak.**

**Bodie thrust harder, faster, his breath rasping and wild. He threw his head back.**

**Something happened. Only later could Doyle isolate the feelings and realise what they meant: that Bodie had climaxed, and at the same time triggered climax within him, so that as he filled with Bodie’s seed he spurted his own, that whatever was happening inside him was like nothing he had ever known.**

**Then they overbalanced, falling against the wall. Bodie, somewhat more capable than Doyle, held him so that he fell gently to the bottom of the bathtub, water soaking him as it poured over the curls. Bodie  
reached past Doyle to turn off the cascade. They sat, trembling and recovering together. **

**“Oh dear Jesus,” said Doyle. He blinked at the stream of water running off his eyebrows, and raised a shaky hand to wipe his face and clear his vision. “Why did no one ever tell me it was like that?”**

**“Because you never asked?” suggested Bodie. “Or because they pretend it’s a bad thing, otherwise everybody’d be doing it.” He was grinning. Doyle thought that grin was the loveliest sight he had ever seen. Pride and love and warmth and physical well-being were all wrapped up together in it.**

**Doyle closed his eyes to isolate the memory of that face. He was filled with emotion: bone-deep unquenchable love for Bodie. This was not ephemeral, even if the sex would have to stop. This was something on the scale of the nighttime sky. This was something to fill a lifetime.**

**He opened his eyes to touch Bodie’s cheek. “Thanks.”**

**“Any time, mate.”**

**“Now we go running? Do we have time still?”**

**“Yeah,” said Bodie. “I woke you up early, hoping for something like this. Only problem is, I don’t think I can move a muscle.”**

**“Me neither,” said Doyle.**

**As it turned out, he could move, and did, but not quickly. By the time they had shaved and had swallowed some coffee, there was no hope of finding time to run before their morning appointment with Major Cowley. This gave them some leeway to kiss as they dressed, and touch each other lingeringly, with secretive smiles, meaningful and meaningless, drinking in the sight of each other.**

**“Have to stop this,” said Doyle.**

**“No, we don’t,” said Bodie.**

**“Getting slack,” said Doyle, in the car. He was driving this morning. “Thought you always ran every day, whatever happened, rain or shine.”**

**“Would’ve, too,” said Bodie. “But I saw what a state you were in, and took pity.”**

**“You tower of machismo.”**

**“Always happy to help out a friend.”**

**“Self-sacrificing, too.”**

**“That’s my middle name.”**

**“So that’s your secret.”**

**“Uh-huh. Handsome, Self-Sacrificing, Brains-for-days Bodie.”**

**“Delusional, too.”**

**“So when’ll we do this again?”**

**Doyle set his mouth. “Can’t.”**

**“Can’t?”**

**“Told you. Last night is all there was. We have to make do with memories, Bodie. I can’t afford to do this again.”**

**The flash of anger in Bodie’s eyes was a warning sign. “Afford?”**

**“I can’t risk losing my job. I can’t risk losing Cheryl.”**

**Bodie looked out the window without answering. There was a growing, cold silence. Then Bodie turned back to Doyle’s rigid profile and said, “You can. You’ve already taken the risk by doing what we did last night. Don’t pretend it was just curiosity, or just a bit of a lark. I know better than that. You love me as much as I love you. We’re good together in every way there is. Leave Cheryl. Come live with me.”**

**“No,” said Doyle.**

**Bodie did not answer. Doyle pulled up to a spot at the kerb, and parked. He turned to Bodie, who was not looking at him. His face was enigmatic, stony.**

**“I do love you,” Doyle said. “It’d be stupid to lie about it. But we can’t . . . I can’t do anything about it. What can I do? I love you deeply but I love Cheryl too, and I owe her things beyond love. We took marriage vows.”**

**“They include fidelity, don’t they?” challenged Bodie. He looked at him squarely. “Didn’t notice you worrying about that last night.”**

**A sensitive point, cutting right to the conscience. All the more reason to stand firm now, before a lapse became a habit and a habit became a need. “Last night I took a recess from responsibility. Now and for the rest of my life, I can’t do that. The more I want to, the more I can’t. If I lose Cheryl . . . I lose everything I value. My life with her, the kids . . . . She’d take the kids away from me, and could you blame her? I’d lose my job, too --Brace would take great joy in branding me queer and throwing me out. Not to mention you losing yours, if this was known. I don’t imagine CI5 looks tolerantly on agents who screw other men. Makes you a security risk, doesn’t it?”**

**“Everything you value?” Bodie’s voice was bleak.**

**“Everything except you and my love for you. Listen, don’t make this any harder.”**

**Bodie said succinctly, “I’ll make this as hard as you want it to be. As hard as your cock last night, or this morning. Harder. Love is a fiercer hold than you imagine. The risks don’t frighten me. I think what’s between us is worth more than that, is worth fighting for. Security risk? That isn’t what really bothers you. You want your life nice and simple, but it can’t be, can it? You wanted to have your cake and eat it too --fuck me and then go home to the wife. So you throw me to the wolves and carry on in noble self-sacrifice for your and her sake, amen. I don’t need to accept that.”**

**“How can you do anything about it?” asked Doyle helplessly.**

**“I can seduce you.”**

**“No.”**

**“I can. Again and again, as often as it takes before you bow to the inevitable.”**

**“No.”**

**“No?” Bodie smiled. It was a dangerous, devilish smile, and it brought back memories that made Doyle’s body warm and his skin tingle. He looked quickly away. Bodie said, on a low chuckle, “No,” as if he were answering an unspoken question.**

**Doyle started the car up again. His heart was thumping loudly. Why had he naively thought Bodie would go along with his plans? Damn, damn, damn. In Bodie’s place, he’d have done the same. Fought for him. Seduced him. Destroyed his margin of safety.**

**He had to make sure it didn’t happen.**

**Bodie said cheerfully, “So when can I come over for dinner?”**

**“Pardon?”**

**“Cheryl said, come back any time. So when do you want me to come for dinner?”**

**“Christ!”**

**“Or are we not even to be friends any more?”**

**“We’re friends,” said Doyle.**

**“Well, then. I enjoyed the other night, though I was hardly at my best. Let me entertain the kids. I’ll charm your wife. I’ll tell scintillating anecdotes of Africa and watch you moving about in those obscene jeans you wear. That is not a complaint about your style of dressing, I hope you realise.”**

**“Africa?”**

**“I used to live in Africa.”**

**“Which part?”**

**“Moved around. In the end, I settled in Capetown for a bit --that was after the Congo, where I was in prison. I was a mercenary.”**

**Doyle whistled. “Full of surprises, aren’t you?”**

**“Don’t worry, I won’t tell the infants the more disgusting stories. What secrets lie in your past?”**

**“Nothing more disgusting than art school and dance classes.”**

**“Knew you’d studied dance. It shows in the way you move.”**

**“Go on.”**

**“Yeah, really. And in the way you kick --those martial arts moves. Your balance is too good. That’s where dance training helps.”**

**“Does me no harm in the night clubs, either,” said Doyle cockily.**

**“Ah. Perhaps we can try them together.”**

**To his own horror, Doyle flushed. But they had reached CI5 now, and he was able to hide it.**

**“What we need now,” said Cowley, “is to ascertain whether Finlay talked before he died, and what he said.”**

**“What we need to ascertain,” said Doyle, “is who killed him, and what they learned.”**

**Cowley took off his glasses, often a sign of irritation. He would have snapped at Bodie, but used more forbearance with the CID man. “Indeed,” he said. “You’re still going after Wipps, I assume. Find out if he has any accomplices. Track him down to his lair.”**

**“We’ve eliminated a number of possibilities,” said Bodie.**

**“Get to it, then.”**

**They left his office. “A spot of questioning the neighbours might help,” suggested Doyle. “Someone might have seen something.”**

**“Some old-fashioned legwork, you mean?”**

**“Yeah, though we could use some help. I’ll put a few constables on it.”**

**“And Cooper. She’s a bright one.”**

**“Fancy her, do you?”**

**“Well, seeing as you’re married, I might try my luck there.”**

**“Bad news for you: she’s married too.”**

**“The good ones always are,” said Bodie sorrowfully.**

**\- - -**

**They went back to see Paula Finlay, the widow. She wept, which was understandable. But after these long days with her husband missing, her weeping was tired and dry, a sustained reaction to news she perhaps had been all along expecting.**

**Doyle talked to her at length, knowing that nothing he could say would help. He found the words coming from his mouth in any case, the promise that the killer would be found and that justice would be done, even while he knew and she knew that this would not bring back her husband or restore the companionship she would now always have to do without.**

**And when he found even his store of words running to an end, he saw her turn her shadowed red eyes to Bodie, and say, “Did he suffer? They shot him, didn’t they? Did he die at once?”**

**“They shot him,” said Bodie. “He probably died quickly. They had him bound so he couldn’t move.”**

**She shuddered, and Doyle put an arm around her shoulders, tried to tell Bodie with a glance to be quiet.**

**But perhaps Bodie understood what she needed better than he did, because she said, “Get the bastards. Find out what happened.”**

**“We will,” said Doyle.**

**Bodie looked at her, and some sort of communication passed between them. She straightened with renewed strength.**

**Doyle looked at Bodie’s cold eyes, and felt the chill through to his heart. Those eyes belonged to the African mercenary, to the crusader, to the acolyte of Cowley --part soldier, part spy. Those eyes were tough and cruel, and belonged to a man he loved more than he could have believed possible, who could also be tender and gentle and laughing when the world give him the opportunity.**

**Women could trust that toughness. He supposed this made them love Bodie the more.**

**He tried not to think about what it made him feel.**

**At the end of the day, Doyle went home feeling oddly lonely.**

**He and Bodie had parted as if they were the friends and temporary working partners that, to all intents and purposes, they were.**

**Why did it leave him feeling lost, that there had been nothing personal, nothing warm, nothing improper in Bodie’s behaviour? That was as it should be. That was as he had hoped. If he had not trusted Bodie’s sense of discretion and decorum, he would not have allowed last night to happen.**

**He felt as if he had torn himself in two. There was no remedy. Love, pain, passion, it all tied up together and someday he might be able to remember this as a pleasant exciting interlude, a cherished memory, or a small taste of what might have been. Still, he thought, as he parked the car on Dorncliffe Road, he would have liked some indication that Bodie, too, was suffering. As he must be.**

**Surely he must be.**

**Lovers. For one all too brief night, they had been lovers. And now . . . . He had the rest of his life to live, without Bodie.**

**The pain of it stunned him.**

**He had thought it through. He was doing the right thing, wasn’t he? Why did it hurt so much? Why was getting out of the car and walking to his own doorstep a gargantuan task of infernal proportions?**

**The dog, as always, jumped on him. “Down, Bascombe,” he said, and Bascombe, normally well behaved, sat obediently, tail wagging, proud of his one customary descent to sin by jumping on Doyle at Doyle’s homecoming. Then Kevin came running, and Michael. Doyle hugged them fiercely. Of course he would not trade them for Bodie, he wouldn’t trade them for the world. “Where’s Sarah?” he said.**

**“In the kitchen with Mummy,” said Michael.**

**So Doyle picked up Kevin, who was making loud noises in his ear, and they went into the kitchen.**

**“Hi, Daddy,” said Sarah, looking up from the bowl she was stirring.**

**Doyle kissed Cheryl on the cheek; she was peeling potatoes. Then he patted Sarah’s cheek. “Good day in school?” he said.**

**“Uh-huh. We studied India. Do you know about India?”**

**“It’s where the ink comes from. And the rubber balls.”**

**“Mr Remble didn’t talk about rubber balls. He told us about Gurus and the Taj Mahal.”**

**“One of the wonders of the world,” said Doyle, putting Kevin back on the ground. He wondered what Bodie was doing this evening. They had not spoken of it, as if to share normal conversation about personal matters was beyond them now. Was he eating alone at a pub? Meeting a bird? Renewing his relationship with that woman he’d been seeing, or starting out again with another one? He had the feeling Bodie didn’t keep himself alone unless he wanted to. Outwardly, he was a sociable man, many friends, a  
busy life. Inwardly . . . Doyle had seen enough under the mask to know that at core he was private, solitary, as if within himself he had a sanctuary where he allowed no one to trespass. But Doyle, perhaps, had looked through the door. **

**He wondered whether, if Bodie was in fact having dinner with a woman, he would take her home and take her to bed. He didn’t like the thought. But why not? Bodie was clearly an active man, a sexually tireless man --how many times had they done it, and in how many hours? He couldn’t expect Bodie to be celibate for his sake, no point to it anyway. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t coming home to Cheryl. It wasn’t as if he had any right to be jealous.**

**But he couldn’t help wanting Bodie to want him, and to continue to want him, absurd and impossible though the situation was. He didn’t want to lose him to someone else, some woman who would not appreciate him nor understand him. Who would never be allowed to see what lay behind the public façade, thus condemning Bodie to loneliness there.**

**That was his business, wasn’t it? It was none of Doyle’s certainly. He had no business to worry about Bodie’s love life or his emotional health.**

**He seethed.**

**“Daddy?” said Sarah. She looked worried. He realised suddenly that she had been talking to him about something --India, or some new topic --and he’d missed it entirely. Hadn’t heard a word she’d said.**

**“Sorry, darling,” he said. “I’m pretty tired tonight.”**

**“Case went badly?” asked Cheryl sympathetically.**

**“Yeah. Tell you about it later.”**

**After dinner, after the washing up and the squabbling over who got to watch what on television and why, and some book-reading, part of it solitary and individual and part of it done in a group out loud, there was a game of draughts. It ended in tears for Michael because he lost. When that was sorted out to everyone’s satisfaction (more or less) and the young ones herded to bed, Doyle went up to his and Cheryl’s bedroom. He was dead tired --that part of his story had been true enough --and he might, perhaps, manage a bath now Sarah was through and he could go to bed early. Would Bodie go to bed early tonight? He thought not.**

**He took off his shirt and tossed it in the laundry hamper. He sat on the side of the bed to take off his shoes, and caught sight of himself in the mirror over the dresser.**

**Perhaps, if guilt and lust and happiness in some confused mixture had not kept his mind fixed on what he had done with Bodie, he would not have noticed how dark and bruised his nipples were, and that there was a mark like a smudge on his neck where Bodie had been sucking him. Over his ribs were three marks like fingerprints, where Bodie had held him ferociously in climax in the bathtub.**

**He looked more closely, and then twisted to look at his back. Hastily he pulled off his trousers and underpants, his shoes and his socks, and studied his body. His cock had every right to be tired, but it somehow managed to revive from its wilted fatigue whenever he thought of Bodie and what they had done and how they had done it. It’s over, he said to himself again, for the thousandth time.**

**His arsehole hurt. There was no getting around it. But the pain wasn’t unpleasant or severe, and the thought of how this sensation had come to exist sent a rush of pleasure jolting through his nerve-ends. He couldn’t consciously remember exactly what it had felt like, but he remembered the quality of the experience, the sense of completion and ecstasy. No wonder Bodie had let him do it so readily, had acquiesced so quickly when he had so stupidly blurted out his desire that day in his office before Sergeant  
Cooper walked in. Bodie had known that incomparable rush already, and had been two years without it. **

**What was two years, in a lifetime?**

**The bath water running, Doyle went back into the bedroom and lay naked on his back on the bed. Bodie had handled himself well today. Last night too, said some part of his mind that he tried to quiet. After that ridiculous conversation in the car, he had acted almost as if nothing had happened. But he did not avoid the issue either, and when, twice, Doyle met his eyes with memory that hit him like desperation, Bodie had sustained the look with knowing understanding and considerable kindness.**

**He understood the stakes.**

**And yes, Bodie too remembered what they had done and how they had done it. It meant no less to him, even if it were less of a novelty. The love had been real.**

**A wince of pain made Doyle realise that he was fingering his nipple. He stopped himself from doing it again. He put on his dressing gown, and went for his bath, trying not to remember what had happened in Bodie’s tub roughly fifteen hours ago. Watching the water flow into the deep white porcelain, he thought about the Finlay case. They’d come closer to finding Wipps, but not close enough. They had enough evidence against the man now to make an arrest, but they had to find the elusive bastard first.  
Bodie had come up with a good thought or two; he smiled to think of it. It was good to work with Bodie, finding, for once, a man with both brains and guts. Stamina, too. **

**Damn! It was like trying not to think of purple anteaters. Once the idea was in your head . . . .**

**Cheryl tapped on the door, and walked in. Since he was wearing his dressing gown, she should not be able to see the bruises. If she did see them, of course, it would not be the first time he had come home with his body marked in the course of pursuing a case. Sometimes there were chases, brawls, resistance, even gunfights, though he had mercifully never been shot. He was most often able to talk his way out of trouble. She would understand about bruises.**

**“Care to talk about it?” Cheryl asked. She could always tell when he was worrying about something, even when he tried to hide it. She put an arm around his neck, hugging him from behind. Bodie had done that, held him like that. He had not kissed Bodie’s arm when he did it, as he was now kissing Cheryl’s.**

**He said, “Finlay, the bloke we were looking for. We found him dead.”**

**“Oh, love, how awful! Is that why you were working all night?”**

**“We have a dozen leads but none of them lead anywhere. At least, not yet,” he elaborated, eluding the question. “I want to find the man who killed him. Finlay didn’t deserve that. There’s a question of national security as well.”**

**“Was he important?”**

**“A cog in the machine, but a knowledgeable one. He was into translation and coding.”**

**“Poor man.”**

**“Poor widow. I had to tell her. Bodie went with me. She wept.”**

**“So would anyone.”**

**“She didn’t blame us, but I kept thinking we should have found him sooner. We should have found him sooner.”**

**She ran her hand through his hair, back and forth, as if scrubbing potatoes. “How?”**

**“More efficiency, brains, dedication. I don’t know.”**

**She lay her cheek on the top of his head. “Oh, my dear. You are the most efficient, clever, dedicated man I ever met. What more can you ask?”**

**“Success in every case,” he said promptly. “Victims who survive. A hot bath after a long day.”**

**She smiled, and stood. “You deserve it. I’m going to read for a bit.”**

**“All right,” he said, and didn’t look up as she closed the door behind her. He took off the dressing gown, and lowered himself into the hot water. He thought about Bodie, and Bodie’s body, and Bodie’s powerful hands on him and what they had done.**

**Bloody hell.**

**When he went into the bedroom, he found Cheryl asleep over her book, her head at an awkward angle on the headboard. He took the book out of her hands, inserted a bookmark, and put it on the bedside table. He moved her gently under the covers. She muttered something. He kissed her forehead, and she smiled without waking up.**

**He turned out the light, and got into the bed with her, snuggled up against her, one arm around her. He liked the way she smelled. He toyed with the idea of waking her for sex, but decided not to: she was clearly tired, and he didn’t want to increase the chance of her noticing those tell-tale marks on his body.**

**He loved her very much.**

**But not, dammit, not to the exclusion of Bodie.**

**Doyle liked sleeping with someone. He had learned that young. He liked to be against a warm body, feeling the comfort of a living human presence. He thought of Bodie, and wondered whether he slept alone in the bed they had used so energetically last night.**

**A dreadful searing pain filled him. He had lost something. This was the despair of bereavement, as acute as that which Paula Finlay felt, as suddenly painful as anything he had ever experienced. It was standing on the edge of a precious revelation, and losing it. It was reading the most beautiful poem in the world, and having the book snatched away after the first stanza.**

**It was the loss of a lover, as painful as such a loss must always be.**

**He would have to endure it.**

**It was doubly hard, with Bodie’s avowed intention not to let the matter drop. But Bodie was no fool. Bodie would have too much pride to pursue a man who had nothing to offer. Bodie would soon cease to want him, and life could go on, with a few intense memories for both of them that they had never had before.**

**He knew he would not stop wanting Bodie.**

**The thought of Bodie not wanting him any more filled him with sorrow. Sometimes it was hard to tell who was the pursuer, and who the pursued.**

**He clung to his last deep truth: his love for Cheryl.**

**He kissed her shoulder, glad she was there, and slept.**

**\- - -**

**Bodie, the next day, was good-natured and full of energy. He had a few extra jokes for Cooper, and some more ideas about the leads they were pursuing in the case. He did not flirt with Doyle, or touch him, or make any attempt to be alone with him. When they were in the car together, he discussed the case and even, when Doyle brought it up, the football game. That was as personal as the conversation became.**

**At the end of the day, Doyle went home with a sense of disappointment and loss. He tried to reason with himself, but reason would not come. He wanted to weep over what he had lost, the thing he should never have had in the first place --Bodie’s love.**

**Hell, he told himself: Bodie love me? Unlikely. He’s probably forgotten already. Why should it have meant anything to him?**

**And why does it mean everything to me?**

**He could not convince himself he did not care. Bodie’s smile and Bodie’s frown haunted him. He wanted to ring him up just to hear his voice again. He thought of a reason to ring him, a question about the case that was as irrelevant as its answer would be. Because he wanted to so much, he forced himself to stay away from the telephone.**

**At dinner he said, “Shall I invite Bodie to dinner again?”**

**He had addressed Cheryl, but there was a chorus of “yes” from the younger set. Cheryl said, “I’d love to see him again, but don’t you think he’d find it a little boring?”**

**“Oh, no!” said Michael.**

**“He likes us,” said Sarah.**

**“Bodie!” said Kevin.**

**So it was agreed. “I’ll ask him tomorrow,” said Doyle.**

**“Don’t be silly,” said Cheryl. “He might make plans. Just like a man, not thinking ahead. I’ll ring him up after dinner.”**

**She did, and Bodie said he would be delighted to come for dinner. He offered to bring wine. The offer accepted, Cheryl rang off, and smiled at Doyle. “What a nice voice he has,” she said.**

**“Yeah,” said Doyle, without enthusiasm.**

**“Not that you’d have noticed,” she teased, and started to clear the table. Doyle helped, thinking glumly that he had noticed. In fact, the cadences of Bodie’s voice lingered enticingly in his mind.**

**This would pass. A year from now . . . two years from now, Bodie would be a friend like any other.**

**Except for the memories. Doyle clung to the memories, acknowledging the pain they gave him, as well as the pleasure. He cherished both.**

**They examined every place Wipps was known to have lived for five years, and found no trace of him. They and several constables questioned neighbours, landlords, clients and the regulars at the nearby pubs. They had several more physical descriptions: “Not a handsome man, but you know, imposing.” They had character assessments ranging from “A fine fellow” to “I always thought there was something not quite right about him.” They even had a good composite drawing.**

**They did not have the man.**

**Finlay’s body offered a few clues; his clothing, more. But nothing led them to Wipps.**

**“We’re getting nowhere,” said Doyle.**

**“Never mind, mate,” said Bodie. “It’s dinner-time and I’m looking forward to some of Cheryl’s excellent cooking.”**

**“How d’you know I’m not cooking tonight?”**

**“Are you?”**

**“No, but I could be.”**

**“Didn’t know you cooked.”**

**“Just wait till you taste my ratatouille à la Doyle.”**

**“What’s that when it’s on my table?”**

**“Veggie stew with dumplings.”**

**Bodie grinned. “You’re full of surprises, you know.”**

**“I hope so,” said Doyle. But Bodie didn’t follow it up with a double entendre, and Doyle was forced to let his own imagination do it.**

**Damn it, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Bodie had less reason for self control than he did, and he was the one having difficulty accepting that their . . . interlude . . . was over.**

**He encountered Bodie at Finlay’s funeral, dressed in a black suit. It suited Bodie, silent and dark in the church, his eyes scanning the crowd at the graveside. Each of them spoke words of condolence to the widow, separately. She smiled briefly at Bodie and looked at Doyle with wet, incredulous eyes. “Find him,” she said. “Find the man who did this to Gerry.”**

**“We are doing all we can,” said Doyle.**

**The second dinner with Bodie as a guest of the Doyle family was a success.**

**Doyle enjoyed seeing Bodie talking to his children, to his wife. Bodie had a way of adding excitement to the gathering with his presence, as much for little Kevin, at two, as for Cheryl, at thirty.**

**Late that night he awoke from a dream of sex with Bodie. Aroused and sweating, his mind was filled with Bodie’s image, Bodie’s smile, Bodie’s voice, Bodie’s smell, Bodie’s cock. He lay with his eyes wide open, helpless against the onslaught of his thoughts.  
He had made love to Cheryl earlier and it had been wonderful. He had thought that it would exorcise the longing. Instead he was filled with a desire he could neither control nor ignore. **

**He thought of what Bodie had said: “Love is a fiercer demon than you imagine.”**

**He remembered, despite himself, everything they had done.**

**So did Bodie.**

**Unable to rest or to sleep, Bodie sat at his table, cleaning his guns. He did this sometimes as an exercise in focus. When he was restless during the day, if he was not working, he could run, or go to the  
gym. In the evening, he could go dancing. **

**In the middle of the night, he turned to his gun collection. It was important to him to take good care of it: he strongly believed that to fail to take care of his collection would be to neglect a duty he had taken on himself. Just as a dog owner must feed and walk the dog, or a parent nurture a child, a collector must give a collection the tribute due to it.**

**Some of his guns had been working weapons he had used in Africa. Later, when he had begun collecting for the beauty of it rather than to have the practical tools of his profession, he had picked up novelties and classics in his travels. Some of the guns had stories, personal anecdotes, memories of dead friends or killed enemies. Some were stories he could not tell.**

**Cleaning the guns was an act of meditation. He went about it methodically, letting his mind focus and roam at the same time. The cloth, the oil, the brush. Ray Doyle. Checking the mechanisms, making sure the object was in good working order. His wrists are so slim and so strong. Checking for obstructions and for flaws. He makes me laugh.**

**The burden of desire was nothing to the euphoria of love. He smiled, to think that he would be seeing Ray Doyle tomorrow. Not to touch him, not to fondle and taste and fuck him, the way he would like to; but to listen to him, talk to him, work with him.**

**It was more than enough for happiness, when it was all he could have.**

**Trained and self-controlled by background and temperament, neither Bodie nor Doyle showed any sign of their sleepless nights or restless dreams in the daytime.**

**Four nights after their night together, Bodie still had trouble putting it from his mind. Sometimes in the car he wanted to reach out and touch Doyle, and forced himself instead to look casually out of the window, keeping his hands to himself.**

**He had forgotten through the icy years what love felt like. Promises of joy, dashed by disillusionment. He had embarked on an affair with Doyle as if it were a game as casual as any he had played --knowing from the beginning it was not. He had even announced his intent to seduce Doyle again --a threat, a tease, a psychological ploy. He had meant it. He just had not thought it through.**

**Seduction is a game best played when the hunter is not vulnerable and the prey is not beloved.**

**Bodie had learned to approach seduction as a type of polite dance, flirting with a purpose. He used it as a way of keeping people, particularly women, at a distance, making sure they knew his intentions were neither honourable nor permanent. They in return could return any degree of response they wished, with the knowledge that however they could play with him, they could not have him. Bodie was not on offer.**

**Desperate, he had made the opening moves in the game to attract Doyle. But it was a different game entirely, as unlike his usual light-hearted sex-play as water is to wine. He could attract Doyle --he had seen it. He could, given a little effort, probably manage to take him to bed again.**

**What then?**

**In this case, he could not be the hunter. He could only be the prey, whether Doyle knew it or not. He would be the supplicant and he could see no outcome but loss. Even if he could attract Doyle, even if he could keep him, it would be at the cost of his conscience, the risk of his family, the jeopardizing of his happiness.**

**What had he fallen to, to chase a married man?**

**He would have said, if anyone had been foolish enough to ask him about it, that he was not given to a tender conscience in matters of sex. He had a few hard and fast rules: he never lied to anyone to get them into bed, and he never let them linger once he became bored. Other considerations were less than significant. He had no qualms about sleeping with married women on occasion --lightly, for the fun of it, knowing himself as safe as they from serious entanglement or the breaking of a heart. Marriage was only one of many factors that kept his solitude inviolate.**

**And now . . . a married man made his heart melt.**

**For his own sake, he would have to back off. He could not afford this desperate need. There was no place in his life for a love that held him by the throat over a precipice.**

**As for Doyle, what could he do but disrupt his life? Harm him? Take from him everything he valued --his standing, his career, his home, his self-respect? And what could he give him in return?**

**Love seemed a paltry return, lust even less.**

**So despite his worst intentions, he would have to back off and stand away. Let Doyle forget what had happened. He knew he would never forget, would never cease to regret that Doyle and he must lead separate lives.**

**It was the only possibility. The alternative, as beguiling as the warm breeze of spring, was nothing he dared pursue.**

**It surprised Bodie to learn that he had a sense of shame, and it hurt as bitterly as any wound.**

**\- - -**

**Doyle was already waiting at his office when Bodie arrived in the morning. He looked critically (and with too much interest, half-hidden) at his working partner, and felt again a flush of warmth at the sight of him. He looked good: rested, alert, fit. Probably he had run, alone. Clearly no one had attacked him. Doyle felt guilty and defensive that he had stopped running with Bodie. Running was an innocent activity, nothing illicit in it. Cheryl and Brace could only approve. Probably he should start again.**

**But right now, the wound was too raw and the desire too near the surface. Running was a link between them, where there should be no link. Running was a pleasure he must deny himself, except in dreams.**

**He wondered who or what Bodie had dreamed of.**

**“Found a sighting of Wipps,” said Bodie. “Near King’s Cross.”**

**Checking it out resulted in a bruised jaw for Doyle and some martial arts practice for everyone. In the end, they marched three men off to the station and Doyle was almost bitter enough to suggest Cowley’s torture chambers. He stopped himself: Bodie might not find it funny.**

**The result: another new address for Wipps.**

**They went there with sirens blaring, and looked like fools for it. Wipps, possibly tipped off, had disappeared. They were left with the contents of his rather luxurious current apartment, held under the name of Grove. They went through it with a photographer and a fine-toothed comb, and found six illegal videos, one questionable sex mag which even Bodie disdained, and a small bag of heroin. No links to international espionage.**

**Scraps of paper in his untidy desk drawer were more promising. Names and phone numbers, not necessarily matched together.**

**“I think this one’s a brothel,” said Bodie.**

**“Oh? And how do you know?”**

**Bodie raised his eyebrows. “How would you think? It’s run by Kathi. She’s an informer. Exclusive clients.”**

**“Any connected with international espionage?”**

**“Dunno. We can ask her.”**

**“You do that one, mate. I’d have to explain to Cheryl afterwards.”**

**Bodie grinned. “Why? I happen to know you don’t explain everything you do to Cheryl.”**

**Doyle turned away, angered despite himself. A dig where it hurt, and only too true. And he hadn’t flirted yet, and Doyle missed that, and he wanted to grab Bodie here and now, and couldn’t. Couldn’t ever again. Couldn’t get over it, either. Not yet. Maybe not ever.**

**“But I forgot,” said Bodie. “You turned over a new leaf. Tell her everything from now on, right?”**

**“Drop it,” said Doyle.**

**Surprisingly, Bodie did. Doyle was left feeling out of sorts for most of the afternoon. He hadn’t thought anything would be this difficult, not once his mind was made up. And why not? The initial temptation had been this bad, which was why . . . . Which was why that night had happened, the one that wouldn’t leave his memory, that aroused him and thrilled him and now shamed him and thrilled him with every thought.**

**“You’ve been a clam all week,” said Susan. They were lying on lounge chairs on the rooftop terrace that belonged to a friend of hers, sipping mixed drinks and pretending they lived like this all the time.**

**“Distracted,” agreed Bodie. He was wearing dark glasses, a tight T-shirt, and shorts. Susan thought he looked splendid but would have died rather than say so.**

**“Anita?” she guessed.**

**“Naw. Broke up with Anita.”**

**“Who, then?”**

**Bodie shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.**

**“Matters to you,” said Susan. She lay back and closed her eyes.**

**“Yeah, well, so do Liverpool’s chances in the finals. Don’t always get our way, do we?”**

**“Cowley does,” said Susan lazily.**

**“No he doesn’t. He gets what he wants for CI5 but he doesn’t get the birds, does he?”**

**“You’re thinking about Annie?” asked Susan. “She was a monster. Wouldn’t wish her on anyone, not even the Cow.”**

**“That’s not the point. He wanted her.”**

**She opened her eyes wide, and stared at him. “Bodie! Are you admitting you want someone you can’t have?”**

**“Something like that,” admitted Bodie.**

**“Thought you could seduce any woman alive. Or at least, you wouldn’t admit it if you couldn’t.”**

**“Yes, and at what cost?” said Bodie. “Suppose it ruins lives? Suppose it destroys both of us? Wouldn’t be right, would it?”**

**Susan took a long slow sip of her drink. Then she said, “What the hell have you got yourself into?”**

**“Precisely nothing,” said Bodie. “That’s the problem. Do you think I’m developing a conscience?”**

**“Not a chance,” said Susan.**

**Give her credit, she knew when to leave him in peace to think. Susan was good that way. So Bodie closed his eyes, feeling the sunshine on his body, relishing it because London got so little, and he thought about Doyle.**

**Choices. He knew he could persuade Doyle back into his bed --no, be fair, it wasn’t something he could be sure of, but he knew Doyle wanted him. He knew that what they had done had overturned Doyle’s life. He knew that he had affected Doyle deeply, as deeply perhaps as Doyle had affected him. So: seduce him, and earn his resentment? Put him in jeopardy in his work? Destroy his relationship with his wife and family, that meant so much to him?**

**It just wasn’t on.**

**On the other hand . . . .**

**Life’s too short, Doyle had said.**

**And Bodie believed, as he had always believed, that sex was good and precious and weighed with the best things in life. It didn’t matter what you did or who you did it with, it was only destructive if you let it be. Only dangerous if you let it be.**

**He had seen the happiness he had put in Doyle’s eyes. Wasn’t that worth the risks?**

**Bodie thought it was. He didn’t know what Doyle really thought, but he suspected Doyle thought as he did, and only needed an opportunity to come to terms with his love.**

**Bodie did not believe in sin. He did believe in consequences, but he knew that consequences can be impossible to predict. Not even omniscient Cowley had all the answers.**

**He reached into his pocket and found 10p. He hefted it in his hands.**

**“A bet?” said Susan. She had awakened from her doze.**

**“Yeah,” said Bodie. “Make a call for yes.”**

**“Tails,” said Susan.**

**He tossed. The sunlight glinted on the coin, which he caught on light fingers and slapped on his forearm.**

**“Tails,” said Susan, looking at it. “What did I just establish?”**

**Bodie smiled, his face happy under the sunglasses. “Paradise,” he said.**

**\- - -**

**It had been a week since the night with Bodie, and Doyle felt worse about it than ever. The case was still unsolved, he was still working with Bodie, and his nerves were fraying rapidly. He wanted to find Wipps, and then to take a long vacation.**

**So he fidgeted with his pen while they were discussing the case in his office. He thought about the question of where Wipps might have gone to ground, at which destination of the mysterious phone calls - the one to France, or the one to Portugal? Perhaps the one to SW3, or the one to Blackpool? The most they had determined was that he had an ex-girlfriend in Putney, who was furious with him for abandoning her, and didn’t know anything.**

**Bodie was staring rather intently at Doyle, a thoughtful expression on his face. “What’s wrong?” asked Doyle, hoping Bodie had come up with a new twist in the search for Wipps.**

**“Nothing.”**

**“Don’t give me that, mate. I can hear you thinking. Anything useful?”**

**“No. I was just thinking that my tongue could reach every part of your body.”**

**If Doyle could have found breath to speak, he would have cursed him. As it was, he was trembling. He was shocked and aroused at the same time, and while his mind was thinking, I don’t want this his body was singing, yes, yes, yes.**

**So it had come. Bodie, blast him, had let the pressure build simply by waiting, and had let Doyle create his own purgatory.**

**Worst of all, Bodie, watching him, could read every reaction, because here and now Doyle could hide nothing.**

**Bodie did not look smug, simply expectant.**

**Doyle fought for self-control, fingers flat on his desk to stop their shaking, breathing slowly, deeply, to bring the colour back to his face. He said in a low voice, “Damn you.”**

**“My place,” said Bodie. “Eight o’clock.”**

**Doyle tried to shake his head in refusal, but he couldn’t do it. He tried to say, “No,” but the word would not come. He wanted this like nothing he could ever remember wanting before. Like air to breathe, it was a need that overrode everything else, including all his good intentions.**

**“I’d make it nine,” said Bodie, “but I don’t think I could wait.”**

**Against his better judgement, against his conscious volition, Doyle nodded.**

**Bodie smiled. It was like health after illness, it was the break in the tension when the orchestra reaches its crescendo, it was the most beautiful thing Doyle had ever seen. “See you then, sunshine,” said Bodie, and walked out.**

**After a quick dinner at home, Doyle said, “I have to go out for a bit.” He gave Cheryl a kiss.**

**“Will you be late?”  
“Dunno. Maybe. It’s this damn case,” he lied. **

**She looked sympathetic. “Well, I won’t keep up. Don’t stay any later than you have to.”**

**“All right,” said Doyle.**

**He drove to Cheyne Row at a speed worthy of Bodie himself. At five to eight, he was on the doorstep, ringing the bell with a heavy finger. Bodie buzzed him in and he ran up the stairs to Bodie’s flat. Bodie already had the door open. He went in and Bodie shut it behind him. Bodie said expressionlessly, without moving, “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”**

**Doyle kissed him, hard. He felt Bodie relax in his arms. Letting his tongue trail along Bodie’s lips, Doyle felt the body press close to him, tentatively at first and then eagerly, and he felt the growing heat at his groin. Happiness filled every cell of his body just because Bodie was here, with him, feeling what he felt.**

**“I wasn’t going to come here,” said Doyle.**

**“But you did.”**

**“I had to. I needed . . . this.”**

**“I told you. You can’t just drop it. It’s love.”**

**“True love?” said Doyle, half joking; but his voice almost broke and he realised that the joke revealed truth, impossible, paradoxical though it seemed.**

**Doyle chuckled against Bodie’s chest, running his hands up and down his back. “Missed you.” They’d seen each other every day.**

**“Yeah.”**

**“Maybe I should start running with you again.”**

**“All right.”**

**Bodie was wearing a T-shirt, because it again had been a warm day. It tightly fit his wide chest, accentuating his build. It was easy to find his nipples. More out of control than he wanted to be, Doyle ran lips around his neck, touching him with both hands. “Do you want this as much as I do?” he asked.**

**“Christ! Yes.”**

**“Do you really love me?” He slid down Bodie’s body and ran his hands down his legs.**

**“Yes.”**

**“Still?”**

**“Yes.”**

**He put his mouth, teasing, over the straining cock he could feel through Bodie’s trousers. “Still?”**

**“You bastard,” said Bodie, laughing. He toppled to the floor, pulling Doyle on top of him. They kissed while the laughter faded, replaced with a breathless intensity.**

**Doyle squirmed out of his tweed jacket and his pullover, and unbuttoned, unbuckled his jeans. That distracted Bodie into playing with the dark line of hair on his abdomen, running soft fingers over the path it made. Doyle knew how hard those fingers could be.**

**He couldn’t let Bodie have all the fun, so he started to work on Bodie’s dark trousers, teasingly unzipping, running his hands around the back of the waist and over the cloth-covered buttocks. He loved the hard strength of that body as he soothed and stroked it, getting the belt loose enough to slip his hands inside, feeling the growing heat of Bodie’s skin.**

**Bodie’s hand found his cock and began to play with it. That did nothing for Doyle’s equilibrium; the control he had planned to show was deserting him fast.**

**Doyle jerked open Bodie’s trousers and pulled them down to his thighs. He began to lick at the hot groin. His fingers reached under the T-shirt, where Bodie’s nipples had become so prominent, and he began to play with them under the cloth, enjoying the feel, enjoying the sight of his heaving ribs and flat abdomen. Bodie’s body was living, breathing art. This was perfection in his arms.**

**Bodie writhed and he lay over him, so their cocks touched, and the bare skin of thigh and midriff.**

**He moved slightly, letting their bodies rub each other, and Bodie closed his eyes with the pleasure, gripping his arms. Doyle pressed harder, for his own sake, not Bodie’s, and Bodie reached around him to hold his bum, squeezing him and releasing him with his fingers firm against the flesh.**

**With a yelp, Doyle came.**

**Bodie murmured encouragement and then cut off his words when it hit him, too, later and longer, and his spasms drove him to gasping silence.**

**Afterwards, he held Doyle as if afraid to let him go. His trousers were around his ankles now, his T-shirt halfway up his torso. Doyle was naked to the knees. Bodie said, “I knew if I waited, you’d come back. You just needed time.”**

**“I needed to understand what this meant to me,” said Doyle. “What you mean to me.”**

**Bodie kissed his temple without speaking.**

**Doyle felt he owed Bodie honesty now, not the deception of silence, even where deception was not intended. He did not want that kind of silence to lie between them ever again. He thought about it for a moment, trying to pick words as direct as possible to explain something he could not quite understand or justify even to himself. “No, I knew from the beginning. But I thought I could do without you, because I saw no other choice. Then I came to realise that seeing you, loving you, that’s the only choice.”**

**“I knew that already. But I didn’t know how long it would take. And there were other possibilities.”**

**“Oh? What?”**

**“One of us might die first.”**

**Doyle punched him, gently. “You berk. Thought you were supposed to be seducing me.”**

**“I just did.”**

**“You never touched me all week.”**

**“Course not. You said you didn’t want it.”**

**“Changed my mind.”**

**Bodie replied by kissing his lips lingeringly, running his hands up and down the backs of Doyle’s legs and across his spine. Doyle lay blissfully against him. “Bodie? How’re we going to go on?”**

**“Think that’s your call.”**

**“No, really. How do you picture us?”**

**“I take it you’re not leaving Cheryl for me.”**

**“Not possible.” But Doyle’s voice caught in the middle of the word. He almost, for a moment, wanted that --a world in which he could be with Bodie, living with Bodie, himself and Bodie together always, a couple united.**

**Oh yes, he wanted it. But like so many things, it was not possible, because it would sacrifice things that could not be sacrificed --his children, his work, his sense of himself. Better to deceive Cheryl than to lose her love. Better to lose himself, than to lose his children. What he wanted . . . what he needed . . . could be compromised. The rest could not.**

**Bodie’s reply was light, although Doyle was beginning to learn that Bodie was at his most flippant when his thoughts were at their most serious. “Then I’ll be at your service, your willing sex slave, for whenever you find the opportunity to come to me.”**

**He couldn’t let that go. “Not slave. Partner.”**

**Bodie said, “Right. So we meet like this whenever you want to, whenever you can get away, whenever I’m available at the same time you are. Obviously we can’t meet at your place. I’ll give you a spare key.”**

**“Is that allowed? In your job?”**

**“No,” said Bodie. There was a silence, as Doyle digested the significance of what Bodie was offering him. Not just trust, but risk. Not just an affair, but a place in his life.**

**He said, “What about your work? Will there be problems with CI5?”**

**“Not if we’re careful. You aren’t a Soviet spy, by any chance?”**

**“Not recently.”**

**“Should be okay then, long as we play it cool. You see, I have reasons for secrecy too.”**

**“Suppose you bring girlfriends here, and I have a key?”**

**“I won’t bring girlfriends here. I’ll go to their places.” He said it flatly. “Don’t worry that anyone will see you here.”**

**“And . . . boyfriends?”**

**“Don’t do boyfriends. That would be a security problem.”**

**Doyle buried his face in Bodie’s T-shirt. He liked the feel, the smell, the heat of his body. But he should be leaving. “Your life,” he said. “I’ve disrupted your life.**

**“Works both ways,” said Bodie. He was rubbing a hand up and down Doyle’s arm. Up and down, the hand hot and strong. Then after a minute he said, “You are my life.”**

**Then after that, when Doyle still did not answer, he said, “See, my life is pretty simple. There are two important things in it. Well, three, if you count myself --my accomplishments, my pride, my learning. Sense of identity, that’s important.**

**“The second thing is my work. That’s professional, that’s crucial, that’s as significant as it gets, and it determines my sense of identity. It’s my life on the line for work that has to be done by people who can do it, and I put one hundred per cent of my effort into it.”**

**“When you aren’t screwing,” said Doyle, smiling.**

**“Right. And then there’s you.”**

**“I love it that I’m important to you.” Doyle kissed the hollow on Bodie’s neck. “I want to be.”**

**“You are. There’s only one other person that matters, and that’s not love. It’s . . . it’s professional, it’s part of the job, but in some way it’s personal too. It’s Cowley. Don’t know how to explain it to an outsider. He is CI5 personified, and I’d do for him whatever I’d do for CI5, which is anything. If he tells me to do something, I do it, with or without explanation. If he orders me to die, I die.”**

**“And if he told you to drop me?”**

**“He won’t.”**

**“If he did.”**

**There was a thoughtful silence. “I don’t know. We’ll make sure it won’t happen.”**

**Doyle said, “I didn’t mean . . . . Listen, I have Cheryl and the family. You have CI5. Commitments for both of us.”**

**“Yeah,” said Bodie. “We’re both married. You to a woman, me to my work.” He played with Doyle’s hair, twisting it around a finger. “You ever regret marrying Cheryl?”**

**“Never. You ever regret joining CI5?”**

**“Nope.”**

**“What’s your favourite colour?”**

**“Green.”**

**“Why?”**

**“Your eyes.”**

**“Idiot.”**

**“Romantic idiot,” corrected Bodie.**

**“You always wear black.”**

**“You just say that because you haven’t seen me in battle gear. Should have seen me when I was in the SAS.”**

**Doyle jumped, and rolled onto an elbow to look at Bodie. “The SA-bloody-S?”**

**“Didn’t you know?”**

**“My God. I’ve fucked the British army.”**

**“The best in Britain. Yup, mate, you got that right. I was in the Paras, too.”**

**“Thought you were a scruffy merc from Africa.”**

**“Been a lot of things. Not scruffy, though.”**

**“Done a lot of things.” Doyle lay back down on his chest.**

**“Yeah, I suppose so.”**

**“So when’d you start having sex with men? In Africa?”**

**“No.” Bodie rolled a lock of hair around his finger. “Before that.”**

**“You must have been young.”**

**“I was seventeen, sixteen maybe. Had a friend, one of the sailors, about five years older than me. We used to go out drinking together. He fancied himself as quite a stud, used to give me pointers about picking up girls.**

**“So we were in port, spending the night at a hotel in Bombay. We were going to find some girls. Then he suggested we just get one girl, and share her. I liked that idea. Then he suggested that we do without the girl altogether.”**

**He stopped there, so Doyle, chuckling, prompted him. “So?”**

**“So we did. And I liked it. Suspect he got more than he bargained for, there. I was insatiable, for a bit.”**

**“Nothing’s changed,” said Doyle, laughing still. The thought of the young Bodie amused him; the eager boy learning new sexual skills. “So what happened to him?”**

**“He’s dead. They caught him with drugs, in some port. He killed himself before they could sentence him. Threw himself into the water with an anchor.”**

**“Hell!” said Doyle.**

**“It was a long time ago. Feels like another lifetime, all that before Africa. Now I have you . . . . Worth waiting for.”**

**“You can be sure I won’t do something stupid, like smuggling drugs.”**

**No, thought Bodie. You might get yourself shot on the job, but you won’t smuggle drugs. You might leave me for your wife, but you won’t kill yourself. “Naw. You have other hobbies. Motorcycles. Art. You ever going to let me see your art?”**

**“Sure. Next time you’re over.”**

**“For dinner.” Bodie smiled again, kissed the lock of hair he was playing with. “I like your family, Ray. I won’t blow it with them. I know what they mean to you.”**

**“Yeah,” said Doyle. Then, because Bodie didn’t move and he had to say it, “Guess I should be getting back.”**

**Bodie let his arms fall back on the floor. Doyle got up. Bodie said, “Hell. I think I have rug burn.”**

**“With no rug?”**

**“Splinters, then.”**

**“Ouch! Shall I check you out? Medically?”**

**Bodie grinned evilly. “Yeah, but I warn you, you’d be starting something again.”**

**“Next time, then. Maybe we’ll get to the bed, or the sofa. The way you were landing on the floor, the person who lives downstairs must wonder.”**

**“The bloke who lives downstairs wouldn’t wonder at all, I should think. He’d know. But he works nights, usually. Lorry driver. Not to worry.” He pulled on his trousers again. “Want a cuppa?”**

**“Sounds good.”**

**They went into the kitchen. “So when are you coming over next?” asked Bodie, putting the kettle on to boil. The extreme casualness of his voice betrayed the importance of his thought.**

**“Tomorrow?” suggested Doyle. “I could come here with you after work. Tell Cheryl I’ll be late home.”**

**“Tomorrow, then. Should I feed you?”**

**“Naw, Cheryl can leave leftovers.” He looked around the rather Spartan kitchen. “You cook?”**

**“I do terrific Chinese takeaway.”**

**“I like that.”**

**“Pizza by delivery.”**

**“Terrific.”**

**“Things in packets, you add water.”**

**“Uh-huh.”**

**“Orders to barmaids in pubs. Waiters in restaurants. That kind of thing.”**

**“Take me out to dinner sometime,” said Doyle, on impulse.**

**Bodie looked at him, with a little intake of breath. Then he smiled.**

**For a moment, they just stared at each other. Bodie might have reached to touch his face, but the kettle started to boil and he turned to rinse the teapot and to make the steaming tea. “Can make tea, too,” he added. “And coffee, with a machine.”**

**“Multi-talented,” said Doyle.**

**“Thought we’d already established that.”**

**They grinned at each other for no particular reason, and Bodie poured the tea.**

**\- - -**


	2. Forever True - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love brings challenges.

****six** **

**When Doyle went in to work, early, he took some time to look over the notes on Finlay and Wipps. Connections . . . . There were too many connections, but they couldn’t make them fit together.**

**The phone rang. It was still too early for regular business. It might be Cooper. It might be Cheryl. It might even be Bodie. Doyle answered with a thrill of anticipation, trying not to let it show. “Doyle.”**

**“Drop the Wipps case,” said a low, angry, and probably disguised voice. “Get out of it or you’re dead.”**

**Doyle replaced the receiver with disgust. Did the fools think a random threat would discourage him? Quite the opposite. It gave him incentive. Beat up Bodie? Threaten his own life? And they thought that would stop him? What fools.**

**“What’s your Christian name?” asked Doyle the next day, as they drove from CI5 to Doyle’s office at the station. “I’ve been wanting to know. CI5 never did tell us. They said they were going to send you to us, just called you Bodie.”**

**“Don’t have a Christian name. I’m not a Christian,” said Bodie smugly.**

**“Aw, c’mon. You must have a given name.”**

**“Three of them, as a matter of fact.”**

**“So?”**

**“Don’t use them.”**

**“So what am I supposed to call you in the throes of passion? By your surname?”**

**“Call me whatever you like,” said Bodie. “It’s the ‘throes of passion’ that’s the bit I look forward to.”**

**“Bodie. What’s the secret? You know I can dig up your file, if I want to.”**

**“Maybe.” Bodie smiled enigmatically. “You think you have enough clout to get it?”**

**“If I flirt with one of your secretaries.”**

**“Naw. Won’t work. They’ve all been to the Cowley school of closed mouths. Don’t worry, I’ve tried it.”**

**“So what’s your name, if it’s too embarrassing to say aloud? Dick? Peter?”**

**“Willie,” said Bodie, and Doyle burst out laughing. Bodie watched with disapproval and appreciation.**

**Despite his desires, Doyle worked late, in the end, and went home to Cheryl. Didn’t want to risk another visit to Bodie . . . . Hell, he did want to risk another visit to Bodie, but felt he shouldn’t. “No problem,” said Bodie. “I have some work to do at CI5 anyway.” The flatness of his voice betrayed his disappointment, but no more than that. He had meant what he said: he was not going to make a mess of Doyle’s life by his role in it.**

**The children were in bed by the time he got home. He and Cheryl watched the news together. One of the items mentioned CI5. Another was about the wars in Africa. Each reference sparked a train of thought. “Funny world,” said Doyle.**

**“Hilarious,” agreed Cheryl.**

**The next day, Bodie was grim-faced when he came into Doyle’s office. “Bad news,” he said.**

**“What, Wipps has left the country?”**

**“No. I’m off the case. Cowley has more tasks for me. Related, but not to be done in a cosy relationship with the Met.”**

**“Oh, no!” said Cooper, upset, and both men looked at her. She smiled sheepishly. “We’ll miss you,” she said to Bodie.**

**“We sure as hell will,” growled Doyle. “Sure you don’t want a career change? To the Met?”**

**“Not on your life. I see how hard you buggers work, and you aren’t supposed to drink on the job. I know how you’re paid, too.”**

**“Pay? We do this for love. Don’t we Cooper?”**

**She chuckled.**

**They met that night. It was similar to the last time they had been together, except that they landed on the chesterfield, and Doyle, lying on his back, made Bodie fuck him, with his feet on Bodie’s shoulders  
and Bodie’s breath mingling with his. It was terrifying in its beauty. Afterwards, they talked. Nothing heavy. Bodie was on a new case; couldn’t discuss it. **

**Doyle went home late to eat Cheryl’s leftovers.**

**That night, she felt amorous, and he felt a second of panic. Would he be able to do anything? Would she somehow guess? Then he was able, and she didn’t guess, and he was left afterwards holding her tight and telling her over and over again how much he loved her and how beautiful she was, and every word was true. She fell asleep in his arms, smiling contentedly.**

**He held her, wondering how he could feel so much love for two people, each so unlike the other. Bodie and Cheryl, lover and wife, the mother of his children and the master of his heart.**

**He felt lucky. The warmth of the thought was followed by a chill. No one could be so blessed. What price could fate have in store --what sacrifice?**

**Inescapably, the threat on the telephone came to mind. He did not believe the anonymous thugs could hurt him and Bodie was off the case anyway now, but no one could prevent every eventuality. They lived dangerous lives. There was no reason for the gangsters to target Bodie, was there?**

**Not Bodie, he thought. Please not Bodie. I couldn’t bear to lose him.**

**That month was a busy one, with a crime wave on in London and renewed trouble in the Middle East. Cowley kept Bodie hard at it, so that days of uninterrupted peace were rare and hours found for time with Doyle even more so, with the schedules of two busy men to worry about.**

**Brace called Doyle to his office twice for a dressing-down, calling his work “shoddy” and “slow”. Knowing it was neither, Doyle took the reprimands with outward patience. He’d been through this before. Brace would push it as far as he dared, but that wasn’t far. He needed Doyle’s record of achievement, which made him look good.**

**At the same time, he felt impatient, less inclined to jolly Brace along than he used to be. The man was a pig. He didn’t feel he was working with Brace, he felt he was working despite him. Give him a good excuse, and Doyle knew the Superintendent would fire him ignominiously. An excuse like a homosexual affair.**

**Not that Brace had the brains to guess. He’d have to be given a written confession and photographs before he’d catch on. Hell, even that wouldn’t do it, Doyle would have to kiss Bodie right in front of Brace before he’d realise. No, Doyle was not worried that Brace would suss out his relationship with Bodie, but they still had to be careful. Give Brace the chance, and he’d crucify him.**

**And even if Brace was dense, Cheryl was not.**

**The times when he could be with Bodie remained the high points of his life. Doing things with Bodie, talking things over with him. Doyle was, generally speaking, more inclined to talk than Bodie was. He told him things he had never told anyone else, not in the way of chatter but because there were things he wanted Bodie to know, though he could not have explained why. Memories of childhood. His feelings about fatherhood. His reasons for joining the police force, and what was good about it, and what was not.**

**And it seemed a very precious gift when Bodie talked about his own life --not about Top Secret matters, but about his past and his friends and his pleasures. In the past, his pleasures had been guns and women and sports. Now he was into guns and sports. “Too busy for women,” he said, and smiled at Doyle.**

**They ran together in the morning sometimes, when they had the time and inclination. When the occasion allowed, usually before, and sometimes after work, they enjoyed each other’s bodies with loving intensity.**

**Sometimes they were able to see each other in different circumstances. Not always alone, with treasured privacy and opportunity for love, which is what meant most to them both, but for public occasions. There was a football game they all went to, Doyle, Cheryl, Sarah, Michael, Kevin and Bodie. Bodie held Kevin on his lap part of the time, and explained the game to him while Kevin tried to pull the hair of the man in front of them. For Bodie’s role in this, Cheryl was ready to saint him.**

**“No hardship,” said Bodie. “Have to bring the young ones up right. Have to teach them the value of a proper match.”**

**Bodie visited the house when he could, sometimes bringing gifts for the children, or flowers for Cheryl. He became familiar, like a favourite uncle, although the children actually had no uncle --Cheryl had only a sister, and Doyle no family at all. “Don’t need brothers,” he said. “I have the whole Force.”**

**“I have a brother,” said Michael, to Bodie.**

**“D’you like him?” asked Bodie.**

**“Of course. He’s little.”**

**Bodie nodded. “It’s a good thing for him, to have a big brother.”**

**“I can teach him things,” said Michael.**

**“Bad habits,” said Sarah. Cheryl gave her a reproving look, but Doyle failed to hide his smile behind his hand.**

**“I could teach you bad habits too,” said Bodie to Kevin. “Even better ones than Michael knows.”**

**Everyone laughed, except for Doyle, who hid his expression by taking a sip of tea.**

**Sometimes he wanted to strangle Bodie. And sometimes, having him at home here, he wanted to touch him. Bodie belonged with him, so he felt as if his home should be Bodie’s home, too. He remembered that first time --“Leave Cheryl. Live with me,” Bodie had said, and Doyle had said, “No.”**

**That once, and Bodie had never asked directly again. Was he content with the way things were?**

**After the children were on their way to bed, Bodie and Doyle went into the back garden to work on the bricks outlining Cheryl’s flowerbeds. The work went smoothly, as such garden work seldom does, with Bodie’s strength and Doyle’s skill combining. We’re so good together, thought Doyle. So very good.**

**But so apart.**

**“What’s wrong?” asked Bodie, who could sometimes read his mind, too.**

**“Nothing. Just thinking . . . . I wish we could live together.”**

**“Asked you once,” said Bodie, lightly.**

**“I don’t mean like that. Told you I couldn’t leave my family.”**

**Bodie looked at him skeptically, jamming a brick into place. “Can’t see me living with your lot, can you?”**

**“Under the circumstances, no. But --”**

**“Jolly little picture, you, your wife, your kids, your lover. That’d look fine to the neighbours, wouldn’t it?”**

**“None of their business,” said Doyle. They’d never talked about their relationship like this, not here, not in the open air. Only in the privacy of Bodie’s flat. It seemed doubly dangerous, somehow, although there was no one to overhear. If the trees were bugged, thought Doyle, it was only greenfly. “Can’t help wishing we could be living more closely together, that’s all.”**

**Bodie looked at him quite seriously. “Ray. I like your family. I love your kids. Your wife is charming. But I don’t want to live with them. You belong here. I don’t.”**

**“They like you,” said Doyle. He had rubbed his nose, leaving a smudge of brown earth across his cheek.**

**“I know. Can you imagine me, getting the young ones off to school and listening to their troubles?”**

**“You do listen to their troubles. You help put them to bed. You read to them, play games with them.”**

**“Only because I don’t have to. And don’t ever, ever ask me to baby sit.”**

**Doyle chuckled. “As a matter of fact, next Friday night . . . .”**

**“No!”**

**“I thought not,” said Doyle sadly. “Reckoned I might be on to a good thing there. Didn’t you ever want to settle down, Bodie?”**

**“Never.”**

**“Why not?”**

**“Don’t see the point.”**

**“You don’t believe in marriage, do you?”**

**“Don’t see why I should. I’ve never been in a position for it, in any case. My first love was a sailor --the roving kind. The second was an Angolan who drove a lorry for the Marxist army. The third was married to an East German spy. Relationships like that don’t encourage a man to settle down.”**

**“Bloody hell.” Doyle thought. “Was the one with the lorry a woman?”**

**“Yeah.”**

**“What happened to her? Or the German one?” He knew already what had happened to the sailor.**

**“They died.”**

**“How?”**

**“They were shot. Different circumstances, different killers. Don’t ask.”**

**“And that was it? No one else you were ever serious about?”**

**“My fourth love was a smart-mouthed big-shot in the London CID.”**

**“I always wanted a family,” said Doyle.**

**“So you got one. I’m glad you got what you want. Isn’t for me, that’s all. I live fine on my own. Independence is my way of life. I don’t hanker for children --not even yours.”**

**“So you played the field.”**

**“Yeah.”**

**Doyle found himself hesitating over a question he was afraid to ask. Because he was afraid, he said it quickly. “Still? Who do you sleep with now, besides me?”**

**“No one.”**

**“Aw, c’mon, mate. I see you ogling the barmaids.”**

**“And I always will! Don’t take them home any more, that’s all.”**

**It was something Doyle had suspected, without understanding it. “No? Why not?”**

**Bodie didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said quietly, “Don’t care to, that’s all.”**

**Doyle found himself suddenly, embarrassingly, moved almost to the point of tears. He blinked, and whispered, “Forever true.”**

**“Don’t make much of it. It isn’t a general policy, just circumstance.”**

**“Love you so much.”**

**“Enough to make me do gardening and house repairs with you. Yeah, I know. No wonder you want me to be part of the household. You want to domesticate me. Can’t be done, sunshine. Many have tried.”**

**Doyle smiled, shaking his head. “Yeah. Stupid thought anyway. I just wish . . . .”**

**“We have something priceless,” said Bodie. “Don’t knock it.”**

**“Just wish --”**

**“You wish you could have it all. Can’t. Not now, not ever. Life isn’t like that.”**

**“Sometimes it is.”**

**“I’m from the jungle, sunshine. Can’t tame me now. Can’t make a lion into a house cat.”**

**“Which jungle?” asked Doyle, who was filled with an overwhelming urge to kiss Bodie, which he had to ignore.**

**“The worst ones. Liverpool, for example.”**

**“Explains a thing or two,” said Doyle.**

**That was on one lucky day when he got to see Bodie, got to talk to him, even got those precious few moments where it was just the two of them and they could talk freely. That seldom happened. Or if it happened, it happened when they met at Bodie’s flat and their intercourse was of another nature, hot and heartfelt, visceral and unrestrained.**

**Untamed, Bodie had called himself. He was paradoxical, thought Doyle, lying in bed with an arm around his lover. Sweet and warm, but trained to be hard. Affectionate of nature, but implacable to enemies. He had a cruel streak, which Doyle hoped never to see.**

**Then again, why should it bother him? He had a cruel streak too, reserved for the likes of Wipps and drug-dealers and men who raped children.**

**Bodie got out of bed and stretched, then went to adjust the window-blind, letting a streak of evening sunlight into the bedroom. Standing naked with light shining against his chest, he looked like some figure of another age — some Roman hero or legendary warrior, master of the javelin rather than the .44 Magnum.**

**“I’d like to draw you,” said Doyle.**

**“So draw me,” said Bodie.**

**“I’d need time. I’d have to bring my supplies here. Takes hours to draw someone, you know.”**

**Bodie looked at him. “How would I know? No one ever drew my picture,” he said.**

**“Doesn’t surprise me. You don’t stand still long enough,” said Doyle.**

**That again was one of the times when he was able to be with Bodie, together and alone. It seemed such times were so rare he could count them on his fingers. Try as they might, it was difficult to be together often. As the season advanced, such times seemed so hard to arrange they began to seem increasingly impossible. Once, while they were fucking and fucking hard, the r/t buzzed, and Bodie, to Doyle’s astonishment and fury, answered it.**

**“Why?” he asked, as Bodie got up, grabbing clothes.**

**“Why? Because it’s my job.”**

**“To answer the r/t when we’re doing it?”**

**“I answer it whatever is happening. What, d’you want Cowley looking into why I’m too busy to respond?”**

**Breathing hard, Doyle stared at him. Bodie, smiling suddenly, bent over and kissed him, patting his cock. “You’ll just appreciate me more next time,” he said.**

**“Sod off,” said Doyle rudely, and fell back among the pillows.**

**Three days later, when he still hadn’t seen Bodie or reached him by telephone, even an interrupted fuck was something he’d give a fortune for. Their affair was becoming a psychological game of ever-decreasing expectations, and even more rapidly decreasing eventualities.**

**He bought a new sketch pad and drawing pencils, and left them in the cupboard at Bodie’s place, for use when they both could be there. Together, with time to spare, and privacy for talk and sitting and doing things together besides sex.**

**As if that might be soon. As if it might ever happen at all.**

**Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, thought Doyle, getting himself a solitary beer from Bodie’s refrigerator.**

**He’d have settled just then for ten minutes of Bodie’s attention.**

**As autumn wore on the job was duller, harder, more frustrating. To work without Bodie beside him seemed like punishment for unnamed sins. It became worse as the week progressed. Another case impinged on the first, when a child was found battered to death and there weren’t enough investigators free. Doyle argued, but someone had to take it on. He wasn’t going to let Wipps get away, but a child was dead, probably killed by its parents, or an uncle, or its mother’s boyfriend. He hated cases where a luckless child was a victim.**

**He tried phoning Bodie, but Bodie was not at home.**

**He went to Bodie’s place again, on his own. He ought to have gone right home, saving these stolen moments for when he could share them with Bodie, but in his lonely impulse he wanted to see the place and be near Bodie’s things, as if they would reassure him of Bodie’s existence, and of his love.**

**He had promised to show Bodie his art, but the opportunity had not arisen. He brought his sketch-book with him, intending to leave it for Bodie to see.**

**As always, the flat was tidy and clean. There was no food in the cupboards, but there was a tin of chocolate biscuits on the counter-top. Doyle took a biscuit, and ate it in the front room, filled with the illusion that Bodie was there, in the next room, where at any moment he would come in to be with him. He put on a record --Bodie’s albums were a rag-bag of eclectic taste. This time he chose Mozart, at random. He liked Mozart, but Cheryl didn’t, so he didn’t often play his Mozart albums. He found a Rubik’s cube in  
the desk drawer, and sat with his feet on the desk-top, playing with it. The second drawer had some letter paper, a few maps (including the London A to Z) and a newspaper clipping. Doyle took it out to read it. It wasn’t particularly informative, and there was nothing to indicate why Bodie had kept it when he kept so little else. The short article was about the visit of a German movie star, Marikka Schumann, to London. The photo was of a beautiful, dark-haired woman standing on a cliff, the wind in her hair -- clearly a clip from some heartwrenching woman’s movie. The title was given as Der Flughaven. **

**Was Bodie a German film buff? It was possible. Doyle realised he didn’t even know what languages Bodie spoke. He was well-travelled, which was something Doyle vaguely envied, having never been out of England, himself. He’d always been too busy to travel, and the children, though they liked going to the seaside, didn’t much like the process of getting there.**

**There was so much Bodie hadn’t said about himself. Doyle wanted to know everything. In Bodie’s absence, he was left with little but speculation.**

**Angola. The SAS. Minion of the infamous Major George Cowley. Doyle, who had every respect for the Controller, had deep fears about what liberties he might take for the sake of order in England. This was a pragmatism that chilled Doyle even while he admired it.**

**And he knew that whatever the Controller dictated, Bodie obeyed. This was an allegiance that went beyond any normal job. Like a knight for his lord: service to death, and in defiance of death. Compared to that personal bond, no consideration of morality, friendship or independence had any place.**

**Bodie: the CI5 gorilla who had a photo of a Lamborghini taped on his mantlepiece and a volume of Keats on his shelf.**

**For a strange moment, Doyle imagined himself living here. Living with the tidiness, the sparse shelves, the sense of impermanence. Bodie said that agents often moved about, though he had lived here since Doyle had known him. He thought of himself being home when Bodie came in, or the other way around. Sleeping with him through the night on a regular basis.**

**No one calling for Daddy in the night.**

**It was a pleasant thought, the mental image of himself as the man who could live with Bodie, free and happy. But it was a chimera. That alternate Doyle could never exist. Not considering his job, or Bodie’s; not considering his family.**

**He had intended to leave his sketchbook on the table, for Bodie to see. Flipping through pages, he wondered if Bodie would really want to look at it. Pictures of Sarah, and Michael, and Kevin as a baby. Sketches of the house, the tree in the garden. A few portraits of neighbours or acquaintances, a rather odd-looking woman he once interrogated . . . and Cheryl.**

**She was there, in his book. Over and over, in various poses, in different clothing and sometimes none at all. Sometimes as the mother of his children, sometimes as a lover. Cheryl, over and over - beautiful, and rendered with love.**

**Would Bodie really want to see this?**

**He picked up the sketch-book to take it back home with him. He put the cube and the picture of the scene from Der Flughaven back in the desk, and left, carefully locking the door behind him.**

**\- - -**

**Had he known it, the Controller of CI5 had been thinking of him that day as well.**

**Bodie, busy on several matters, had come to Cowley’s office for a debriefing. It went well. Cowley went so far as to commend Susan and Bodie on their work, and Bodie knew the commendation to be well-deserved.**

**After they had been dismissed, and Susan had gone to Records to pick up information on weapons research at Pendapton Base, Bodie went back to Cowley’s office and said, “May I speak to you for a moment, sir?”**

**Cowley put aside the notes he was reading. “Something else about Pendapton?”**

**“No, sir. A personal matter.”**

**“Sit down, then.”**

**Bodie sat. “It is a matter of policy that you be informed when agents are involved in a serious relationship.”**

**Cowley’s face registered astonishment as it seldom did. “Good God, man,” he said. “You aren’t going to tell me you’re contemplating marriage.”**

**“No, sir.”**

**“It would be disaster if you did. Total disaster.”**

**“Yes, sir.”**

**“Well, then?”**

**“There are other kinds of relationships. Other kinds of . . . commitments.”**

**Cowley’s eyes narrowed. “And you have formed such a --commitment?”**

**“Perhaps.”**

**“Tell me, then.”**

**Bodie paused.**

**“A married woman?” Cowley guessed. Fair enough: that had been the case last time. He was, Bodie reflected, probably simply trying to think of a worst case scenario. He wasn’t even close.**

**“No,” said Bodie, amused. “A married man.”**

**Nothing in Cowley’s face betrayed his feelings. Bodie, who had suffered through similar occurrences in the past, braced himself and waited for the reaction, whatever it might be. Anger? Sorrow?**

**“What is his name?” asked Cowley, after a millennium or two.**

**“You know him, sir. Raymond Doyle.”**

**“Detective Inspector Doyle.”**

**“Yes, sir.”**

**“For God’s sake, man, you know the regulations in the police force. He’d be out on his ear --”**

**“Yes, sir. I know. He knows.”**

**“Is he leaving his wife?”**

**“No, sir.”**

**“Does she know about this -- commitment?”**

**“No, sir.”**

**Cowley glared at Bodie as if to see into his skull. “What kind of affair is it? Clandestine meetings?”**

**“We see each other when we can. He visits my flat. I have befriended his family, and visit there sometimes. Short of bugging my bed, and the security precautions render that impossible, no one can know we are lovers rather than friends.”**

**Cowley said flatly, “You know I should dismiss you for this.”**

**“Yes, sir.” But it was clear already that he was not about to, and Bodie found himself letting out a breath of relief. He had not been sure, either way. Cowley had liberal principles and a sympathy for gay rights, and had more than once championed that cause. He was fiercely protective of his agents and their liaisons, their families, and their behaviour, on a purely personal level.**

**“If you continue to pursue this affair, I shall have to do so.”**

**Bodie did not answer.**

**“I want your word, 3.7, that you will discontinue this affair.”**

**“No, sir.”**

**“Bodie?”**

**“You can fire me,” said Bodie, “or you can keep me in the Squad and permit me to continue my relationship with Doyle. You have no other options.”**

**“CI5 can veto unwise associations formed by agents.”**

**“Agents can resign,” said Bodie.**

**“I don’t believe you,” said Cowley.**

**“Try me.” Bodie set his mouth.**

**“I don’t believe you’d set your job at jeopardy for the sake of a --”**

**“Tawdry affair?” supplied Bodie. “Or is queer relationship the phrase you’re looking for? You can’t claim he’s a security risk. You can’t claim I am, either. Find an excuse to fire me if you like, but CI5 doesn’t have restrictions on sexual orientation.”**

**“I know that, lad. I wrote the rules myself.”**

**“Take it or leave it,” said Bodie. “If you want me, you must accept that Ray Doyle is my lover.”**

**Cowley said, “It’s a bad business, Bodie. You may see it as --commitment --but he’ll leave you as soon as it suits him. He has a wife.”**

**“You think I don’t know?” Bodie’s voice rose. “Are you telling me he’ll break my heart? Maybe he will. Maybe tomorrow, maybe ten, twenty years down the line. It doesn’t matter.”**

**Cowley was watching his face closely. Bodie lowered his voice. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated.**

**Cowley shook his head. “You’re mad.”**

**“Over him --yes.” Bodie glared at him in challenge.**

**His face thin, his eyes tired, Cowley said merely, “Inform me of any change in status that may occur.”**

**“Yes, sir,” said Bodie. Rightfully judging himself to be dismissed, he rose and left the room.**

**Cowley sat thinking. His thoughts ranged far afield: everything he knew of 3.7, from the record of a shady past in Africa, never spoken of, to the SAS golden boy who had fallen on his doorstep, and the ruthless, responsible agent on whom he relied for so much.**

**The man had a heart. For years he had sheltered it behind brief, intense affairs and flagrant promiscuity. It was perhaps inevitable that he would eventually want more, and in typical 3.7 fashion, should pick someone whose nature and situation rendered the affair impossible, not to mention disastrous.**

**Cowley called for Betty. “Get me the file on Detective Inspector Doyle of the Met.” She did so.**

**He leafed through the pages, considering the man laid before him. The career; his handling of the Finlay case; his personal style and competence. The memories he had of the man here in this office: forthright, amusing, sharp.**

**He found the notation he needed, the CID men in Doyle’s department. His immediate superior was Superintendent Harold Brace.**

**Cowley had met Brace a few times, when their jurisdiction had overlapped. A man nearing retirement, a man who followed regulations, a man to know the rules and stuck to them. Doyle’s record contained more than a few hints that Brace was not his greatest admirer.**

**When Cowley determined on a course of action, he did not waste time. He picked up the telephone and dialled Brace’s number.**

**They had a brief conversation that was mutually hostile, overtly polite, and most informative to both of them.**

**When he hung up, Cowley poured himself a glass of pure malt scotch. Bodie, his best agent, caused him more trouble than the rest of them put together.**

**\- - -**

**Susan met Bodie in the corridor. She looked at him, sensed that he was angry and tense. She could not guess what lay behind it, as the case had gone well and Cowley had been mellow. “Something?” she said.**

**He shook his head and went on walking. “Sorry, Suze, can’t talk about it.”**

**“Bloody hell, Bodie, you’ve talked to me about everything else on earth! What’s the secret?”**

**“Don’t tell you everything,” said Bodie shortly.**

**“Don’t have to. I usually guess. But not this time.”**

**“It’s between me and the Cow,” said Bodie. He was relieved that a difficult conversation was over, and that it had gone better than he feared. He was equally angry that it had not gone better, that Cowley had mistrusted Doyle and Doyle’s intentions, that he had reacted no better than any other man would to the news. What had Bodie expected, congratulations?**

**He was furious with himself for a disappointment he could not analyse.**

**“Hmm, really?” said Susan casually. “Just you and Cowley? I would guess there might be a third party.”**

**“Work for the tabloids, do you?”**

**She wouldn’t smile. “Bodie? Are you in some kind of trouble?”**

**“No.”**

**“Then there’s only one alternative,” she said, and sighed dramatically. “Only it’s worse. Much worse. You must be in love.”**

**Bodie put his bad mood behind him. Laughing, he gave her a hug, and denied everything.**

**The business with the weaponry had escalated into a major Customs and Excise fiasco that had six A-Squad agents on the same case, and Cowley fighting a major political battle with the Home Office.**

**Doyle had to look into the suspicious suicide of a teen-age girl in Soho. A schoolgirl who had turned to drugs, then to whoring. It sickened him, the way the pimps had used her.**

**Bodie, pursuing high-tech gun-runners, drug dealers, and an immigration scam, was not at home. When seven days had gone by --and then ten --and then a fortnight, Doyle was desperate, phoning him at all hours, trying to catch him at home. Messages left with CI5’s cheery receptionist received no reply.**

**Doyle tried to concentrate on the job, though the case of the death of Margie Grant, aged three and a half, did nothing to make him feel better. The parents were distraught, the neighbours horrified, the questions endless and the answers sparse.**

**Perhaps Bodie would be away for months; did CI5 men work overseas? Perhaps he had had enough of Doyle and their irregular relationship. Perhaps he had been killed, his lifeless body waiting to be discovered in the Thames.**

**If that were the case, would he ever know? CI5 would keep it out of the papers. He would not be informed, since no one would know he should be informed.**

**The phone rang after four o’clock. Cooper answered and said, “It’s for you.”**

**“Doyle,” said Doyle, into the receiver.**

**“Good afternoon, Goldilocks. Hear you’ve been trying to reach me.”**

**“Yeah.”**

**“Want to meet?”**

**“Yeah.”**

**“I’m aching for you, sunshine.”**

**“Yeah.”**

**“I’ll have a room at the Avondale Hotel on Chester Square. I’ll leave an envelope at the desk for you under the name of --what? Ray Duncan, is that all right? --and you can ask for it, and then just come up to the room. I’ll wait for you.”**

**“How soon?”**

**“I can be there in ten minutes. Give me five minutes to check in.”**

**“I’ll be there in twenty-five.” Doyle hesitated. “Isn’t it . . . .”**

**“Risky?” There was a short silence. “No better and no worse than my place.”**

**True enough. “All right,” said Doyle.**

**He rang off. Cooper said hopefully, “Bodie has found something? A lead?”**

**“Maybe,” said Doyle.**

**He was at the hotel in twenty minutes, and waited for a while in his car, thinking. This was madness, but it ran through his body like blood, keeping him alive. Seeing Bodie was becoming the single most important thing he could imagine.**

**He left the car, and went to the desk. The envelope for Ray Duncan was duly and efficiently produced. He went up the stairs to the first floor, and took out the key. At room 206, he did not knock. He put the key into the lock and went in.**

**Bodie lay on the bed. He had shaved, possibly even bathed, and was relaxed on his back with a towel wrapped around his waist. The towel was skewed by what lay under it. Doyle strode to the bed and pulled off the towel, holding Bodie’s cock while he kissed him.**

**“Oh God,” said Bodie. “In your leather jacket too.”**

**“You go for leather?”**

**“When you wear it. I go for anything you wear.”**

**“Can I take it off, then?”**

**“Do whatever you like. Sky’s the limit.”**

**Laughing, Doyle threw off his clothes, and pounced on Bodie.**

**After the sex, they sat drinking the beer Bodie had thoughtfully brought. “Missed you,” said Doyle. “Started imagining terrible things.” He was sitting naked and cross-legged on the bed, enjoying the  
situation. **

**“For instance?”**

**“For instance, that you were dead.”**

**“I was working. Yeah, it might happen some day. You shouldn’t dwell on it.”**

**“For instance, that you didn’t want me any more.”**

**Bodie cupped his chin. “Want you more all the time. That won’t happen. Won’t happen at all.” He let go, took a drink of beer.**

**“You have any time off? Now your job’s over?”**

**“A few days. Why?”**

**“Thought we might celebrate my birthday next week.”**

**“Your what?”**

**“Birthday. People do have them, you know.”**

**“Even you. I’d’ve never guessed. So tell me again what’ll you be.”**

**“Older and better, like aged wine.”**

**“Or smelly cheese. Right. How old?”**

**Doyle said reluctantly, “Thirty-four, and now you know I’m a Libra.”**

**“Libras age well, do they, old man?”**

**“Like diamonds.”**

**Bodie smiled. “Diamonds. Hard and beautiful.” He put his hand on Doyle’s knee. “Can’t stop touching you. Don’t want to stop.”**

**“Don’t stop,” said Doyle.**

**Doyle celebrated his birthday with the family, and Bodie as a special guest. There were special treats for everyone, including the dog, and fancy hats, with “Daddy at 34” written on his. A chocolate cake, with thirty-four candles. He made the children help him blow them out.**

**Cheryl gave him books and tapes and clothes. The children had each made something: a picture in crayons from Kevin, which was explained to be a portrait; a napkin ring made of beads from Michael; and an embroidered handkerchief from Sarah.**

**Bodie gave him a book: _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_ , and a tin of chocolate biscuits. There were then treats for everyone. **

**The next day, Doyle went to Bodie’s flat early in the day for a run. The warm spell had ended, and rain had come, cold and intermittent. They ran in the damp morning air, passing through patches of fog as they ran through the graveyard. “Wish I could have you here,” said Doyle.**

**“What?”**

**“It’d be hot,” said Doyle.**

**“It’d be bloody freezing. Chill my arse off.”**

**“You’d be hot too. So hot you wouldn’t notice.”**

**“It’d be damp.”**

**“Steamy,” agreed Doyle.**

**“Hard on those tombstones.”**

**“Very hard,” agreed Doyle.**

**They ran back to Bodie’s place, sweating in their track suits, skin chilled where it hit the air. They bathed together, soaping each other, making the most of it. They had all day, or at least all morning. In the afternoon, they were going shooting, at a place Bodie knew that was good for it.**

**They lay on the bed, touching. Doyle was no longer mesmerized by the strangeness and the novelty of touching Bodie, but the excitement was no less. Not that it wasn’t constantly different: Bodie didn’t like to get into a sexual rut. He liked trying different positions, different experiments, different moods. Doyle loved his inventiveness.**

**So why does he only do it with me, now? Doyle wondered. As far as he could tell, Bodie hadn’t been with anyone else since Anita. He truly wondered why. Bodie talked freely and with some pride of his sexual past; he’d had no shortage of women. And now Doyle was all he wanted, but he would not, or could not, explain the reason. “That’s just the way it is,” he said.**

**Doyle was touched by the fidelity, ashamed he could not reciprocate. It was all the worse that it was unasked and unacknowledged. It shamed him how much he liked it, how he relished it, how much he wanted it that way. Perhaps Bodie had guessed that, with the uncanny knack he had of knowing what Doyle felt, sometimes before Doyle knew it himself.**

**“Got you a present,” said Bodie.**

**“Yeah.” Doyle caressed Bodie’s cock.**

**“Not that, you single-minded Priapus.” Bodie reached for something in his drawer. Not the tube of lotion.**

**“You gave me that book. Motorcycle Maintenance. Looks good.”**

**“Something else.”**

**Bodie held it out on his hand, wrapped. It was a small box, probably a jewellers’ box, judging by its size and shape. Doyle took it. “Bodie?” He sat up, crossed his legs. He shook it, but it made no sound.**

**Bodie shrugged. “Open it.”**

**He did. The card, tucked under the green ribbon, simply had DOYLE written on it in Bodie’s tight precise printing. The wrapper was an art-design paper, swirls of Chagall colours. Underneath the wrapping was a black box. In the box, a gold chain.**

**“Goes around your neck,” said Bodie. When Doyle said nothing, he added, “You don’t have to wear it.”**

**Doyle lifted the links. They flowed like water from one hand to the other. Fine gold links, catching the light and glittering.**

**“Wanted to get you a diamond, but that’s too obvious, and how would you wear it? So I thought, a chain. An infinite loop. Linking us. Love without end.”**

**Doyle looked at Bodie, who appeared to be embarrassed by what he was saying. Words so exquisite they put a lump in his throat. “Love without limits,” said Doyle huskily, warmed and thrilled by it. He trailed the chain over his cock, which was more than half-hard and increasingly demanding attention. Then he lifted the chain to put it around his neck; hesitated. “You fasten it,” he said. “Seal our love.”**

**“All right,” said Bodie.**

**Doyle turned around, kneeling with his back to Bodie. Bodie fastened the clasp. He could feel it, light and cold on his collarbone. “I’ll wear it,” he said. He twisted his neck so he could kiss Bodie’s mouth. “I love you. I’ll wear it always.”**

**“Ray --you don’t have to. Not if there’ll be questions.”**

**“Doesn’t matter,” said Doyle. “This is more important.” He touched the chain. “When’s your birthday?”**

**“February.”**

**“Which day?”**

**“The ninth.”**

**“I’ll give you jewellery too. Something you can wear everywhere.” He smiled with evil intent. “A cock-ring. With a diamond in it.”**

**Bodie brushed Doyle’s lips with his. “Never knew a man as wicked as you.”**

**“Never will again,” said Doyle.**

**\- - -**

****seven** **

**The place where Bodie took Doyle for the afternoon was a farm.**

**Its owner was an ex-military man called Stevie who greeted Bodie as a friend, but said no more than was necessary to either of them, being a man of few words. He left almost immediately in his car. “His  
wife’s at work today,” said Bodie. “She’s a lawyer in Cambridge.” **

**Their firing range was a stone fence. Bodie set bottles on it, from a box in the corner of the yard. “Stevie saves them for me,” he said.**

**Doyle had used guns, but not often. He had chosen one carefully, from Bodie’s treasured collection, a new Manurhin MR73; then, at Bodie’s urging, had chosen a second, different handgun, a Colt, to get the feel of two types. Bodie had talked him through the instructions which Doyle remembered without confidence: loading, the safety catch, the way to hold it and the way to stand when shooting.**

**When it came to weapons, Bodie knew his business, and guns were his personal passion.**

**The wind was from the east, to their left. Bodie shot first. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven shots, leaving seven shattered bottles. He went and set up seven more. “Your go,” he said.**

**Doyle braced himself, aimed. One. Two. A miss. Damn. Three. Double damn. Four. “We putting money on this?” he asked.**

**“Naw. Wouldn’t be fair, not till you’ve had more practice.”**

**“I know you collect guns. You practise too?”**

**“Every day.”**

**“What?”**

**“Every day I run. Every day I shoot.”**

**Doyle lowered his gun, staring at him.**

**Bodie said, “It could mean my life, or Susan’s life, or anyone’s life, if I miss a target at the wrong time. Of course I practise.”**

**Doyle shot again, with resolve. Five. Six. Six. Six. Seven.**

**“Good work.”**

**“Just wait till I’ve had daily practice for months,” said Doyle, with a determined smile. “Or years.”**

**He liked seeing the gun in Bodie’s hands. He liked to see the intent stare with which Bodie pinned his target, the decisive way he pulled the trigger. Doyle enjoyed learning from an expert. The gun seemed an extension of Bodie himself, his masculine character, his directedness, his determination.**

**He wondered what other areas of expertise he would discover.**

**He was getting the knack. Back straight, just so. Arms balanced, so. Not to focus on the distraction of the gun, but on the target. One. Two. Two. Two. Three. Four. Four. He lowered his arm. He was standing closer to the targets than Bodie was. “How do you do it every time? Don’t just say ‘practice’.”**

**“That’s what it is. And . . . .”**

**“And what?”**

**“Something Shusai said. He’s my martial arts instructor. The target is the bullet. The bullet is the gun. The gun is the marksman. All are one, all are the same. You are gun, and bullet, and target, and motion, together.”**

**“Shit,” said Doyle, and fired. Five. Six. Seven. He lowered the gun.**

**“Easier to do it without thinking at all,” he said.**

**“That’s what I just said,” said Bodie, grinning.**

**They spent most of the afternoon shooting. Finally out of bottles, and almost out of ammunition, Doyle said, “I’ve about had enough.”**

**“Getting tired?”**

**His arms were shaking with fatigue. “Yeah.” He put on the safety catch, unloaded the gun. Only a fool takes stupid chances, Bodie had said. There are enough dangers without that. “Think I’ve earned a prize?”**

**“Sure. What?” Bodie’s eyes flashed, ready for a challenge.**

**“Fuck me here.” In an enclosed yard, with no one around, the sunlight low over the roof, the air fresh and cool.**

**“Now?”**

**“Yeah, now.” Doyle put down the gun.**

**“Need to clean the guns.” But he was teasing, Doyle knew. Teasing with a stony face and a cop’s straight stance. No: a soldier’s. A marksman. An SAS warrior. Doyle felt a delicious shiver down his back.**

**“Afterwards,” said Doyle, discovering that his voice had gone husky again.**

**“Been shooting all afternoon.”**

**“So shoot something else.” He walked forwards, slowly, towards Bodie.**

**“Dunno. Might be boring. Did it just this morning.”**

**“After two bloody weeks without much of anything.” He’d missed Bodie desperately.**

**Bodie threw his jacket onto the grass. Doyle stood before him, and he reached for Doyle’s belt, pulling him closer. Unbuckling it. He did not smile.**

**“I want it,” said Doyle.**

**“You earned it,” said Bodie.**

**Doyle clutched his arms, running his hands down the knit pullover, the soldier’s pullover that covered muscular arms and formidable biceps. He ran his fingers over Bodie’s supple wrists, and entwined his fingers with Bodie’s, and leaning forward, kissed his expressive lips.**

**Bodie lowered him back onto the jacket, on the ground. His kissed him and caressed him, playing with his skin, saying nothing although his breath came hard. He pulled down Doyle’s jeans, making an efficient job of it, staring down at Doyle’s half-naked body and unzipping himself in one smooth motion. Then he turned Doyle onto his chest, and in a motion equally smooth, lifted his hips. Not sure what he was doing or how he was doing it, Doyle jerked in surprise as Bodie’s warm tongue probed his arsehole.**

**Cold air, warm tongue, hot hands. Christ!**

**And Bodie, when he was ready, moved into him smooth as silk, stopping with just the cockhead inside, letting Doyle adjust. He moved with a steady gait, gaining momentum, then slowing to make Doyle wait. The ground was cold and wet and hard under him, but that made it all better, feeling the heat of Bodie’s body and the greater heat within him. Bodie knew how to stoke the flames. There was a cold breeze which sent a shiver down his back even as the heat from his arse grew and built and burst into flame,  
consuming him. **

**When it was over, he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes.**

**Bodie knelt before him, flushed and panting slightly, his wet cock, cupped in his balls, shrinking back into the refuge of his fly.**

**Underneath his own shirt, Doyle cold feel the sultry metal of the gold chain. Doyle said, “What a happy birthday you’ve given me.”**

**“You’ll wear me out before I’m thirty-three,” said Bodie.**

**“That’s why you need more practice. You told me. Practise every day.”**

**A flicker of sadness appeared and disappeared in Bodie’s face. He wanted to. They couldn’t. “Often as we can,” he said.**

**“Yeah.” Doyle took his hand again, squeezed it. He shivered, chilled.**

**“For God’s sake,” said Bodie. He took Doyle’s abandoned jeans and pulled them up over his feet. “Lift your legs.” Doyle did. He pulled on one leg, then lifted Doyle’s other ankle and pulled on the legs of the trousers. “Lift that lovely arse. It’s wet. You’ll catch your death.”**

**“Not my fault it’s wet,” said Doyle.**

**“Yes, it is. Entirely your fault. Now zip up before you give me ideas.”**

**“That a promise?”**

**Bodie groaned. He stood. He held out his hand, pulled Doyle up. He picked up his jacket and brushed it off on the outside, wiped at the damp spot inside, and put it on. “We have guns to clean,” he said. “Then, home.”**

**“Yeah, home,” said Doyle, smiling with sudden joy at the thought of seeing the kids, seeing Cheryl, telling them about the target shooting, and all the while feeling this warm glow inside himself.**

**It was a heavenly birthday.**

**Not so heavenly the next day, back at work and on Wipps’ trail. He caught one of Wipps’ associates in a lie; it was the bastard who had socked him on the jaw when they nicked him. That lie unravelled, a treasure trove of possibilities fell into his hand. By Thursday, he had a plan so orchestrated that Wipps could not slip out of his grasp if he were greased with Bodie’s favourite lubricant.**

**There was no opportunity to see Bodie till Saturday.**

**But that was only six days since the birthday shooting, and it was not often he got to see Bodie twice in a week. They had the whole afternoon --an unusual joy. The phone rang while they were playing sensuous games with mouths and skin and words. “Don’t answer,” said Doyle.**

**“Have to,” said Bodie, and picked up the receiver. “Three-seven.” The number took Doyle by surprise, with a little jolt. Work. Numbers. Bodie, his Bodie, was three-seven. Not William Andrew whatsit, the only time he’d used that name was when they filled out his birth certificate. He was Bodie, three-seven.**

**“Yes, sir,” said Bodie laconically, and put down the phone. He got up.**

**“Bodie?”**

**“Sorry, sunshine. Got to go.” He was dressing.**

**“That fast?”**

**“Faster.” He reached over, kissed Doyle hard, briefly, on the lips. “See you later. Hold that thought.”**

**“Bastard,” said Doyle, tolerantly. He watched him go, the door shutting hard behind him.**

**He lay in Bodie’s comfortable, large bed, with a shrinking hard-on and nothing to do about it. “Bastard,” he said again, aloud. It made him feel better. He maybe deserted Bodie, night after night, to be with Cheryl and the children, but he never left him aroused and ready and still unsatisfied.**

**Or was that a distinction that made no difference?**

**Bodie phoned him at home on Tuesday. “Job’s over. I am back and at your beck and call, as necessary or desired.”**

**Doyle smiled. “It’s seven. I can be there at eight.”**

**“Waiting for you, lover.”**

**He hung up. Cheryl looked at him. “Who was that?”**

**“Cooper,” he lied. “Have to question someone.” He kissed her lightly, grabbing his coat. “I’ll try not to be late.”**

**“You always do,” she said wryly. “You always are.”**

**Thursday morning Doyle once again left home early in the morning, to go running with Bodie. First he ran up Bodie’s stairs, and opened his door, and tackled him in his own sitting room. He tried to carry him triumphantly into the bedroom but Bodie outweighed him and gave no help at all. They fell in a tangle of arms and legs before he got halfway to the bedroom door.**

**“You’re an elephant,” said Doyle. “A bloody fucking elephant.” But they were kissing like idiots, and laughing, and it was glorious when he finally slipped into Bodie’s eager body.**

**They even had time to run, briefly, before going their own ways: Bodie to shower at CI5, Doyle to wash quickly at Bodie’s apartment and then to go to work at the station.**

**Friday, Bodie came over and ate with them, then he and Cheryl and Doyle went to see a movie --a Clint Eastwood movie, Magnum Force, playing at the place down the road in Putney that did old movies. Cheryl liked seeing Clint Eastwood. Bodie liked the guns. Doyle liked sitting between them, firmly holding Cheryl’s hand on one side, and surreptitiously touching Bodie’s knee with his on the other.**

**Saturday, he was able to spend the whole night with Bodie, something that hadn’t happened since their first night together in early August. Cheryl and the children had driven up to spend the weekend with her mother, in Leicester.**

**Sunday, about noon, Bodie got another call. Again, the closed, inward look, the quick departure, the firm kiss. “Love you,” he said.**

**Doyle tried not to worry.**

**Monday, he tightened the noose around Wipps, and then made his arrest.**

**The arrest itself was easy. Wipps looked like his drawing: thin lips, small eyes. Doyle was left with the feeling of a job well done. Enough evidence to convict Wipps on the murder of Finlay, and probably torture, treason, and espionage to boot. They also found four forged passports and a sizeable sum of cash.**

**He testified at the trial of Ivan Grant, Margie’s uncle and probably her killer.**

**He missed Bodie.**

**Bodie was back on Wednesday. He rang Doyle up and then Doyle went to Bodie’s after work, telling Cheryl, quite honestly, that he was dropping by there before going home. They drank beer, mostly, and talked. The love-making was friendly, warm, not very intense but satisfying. Bodie was exhausted and bruised, though he wouldn’t talk about the case he had just come back from. “No knife wounds,” he said cheerfully, and Doyle had to smile. He loved Bodie for the careless way he accepted danger. He  
hated the necessity of it. **

**Thursday, Bodie called him again at work, something he seldom did. He usually left it to Doyle to call him. “Need you,” he said without preamble.**

**“I’m on my way,” said Doyle. He left without explanation to Cooper, and drove too fast. He didn’t know what it was about, but he knew Bodie would not call him for something trivial. Bodie was white-faced. Doyle took him in his arms and held him tight. “What is it?” he asked. He thought: We’ve been found out. He lost his job. He’s sick. He’s hurt. He wants to leave me.**

**Bodie said, “Sorry. I just need . . . I want . . . .”**

**“What?”**

**“Five-six died.”**

**For a moment it made no sense. Then Doyle remembered that CI5 agents all had numbers, and 5.6 was probably a good friend with a name, and an identity, maybe even a family to grieve for him.**

**“I’m sorry,” he said, holding Bodie more tightly. He could not help thinking: It could have been you. Thank God. Thank God it was not.**

**Bodie shuddered in his arms. “Saw him go,” he said. “Saw him die. Blown up in front of me. Flames everywhere.”**

**“You all right?”**

**“Burned my arm, that’s all. It’s nothing.”**

**Doyle said, “I’m glad it wasn’t you,” and knew as he heard the words from his own mouth how selfish and unfair they were. He should not have said it aloud.**

**Bodie said, “Need . . . .” He shuddered again.**

**“Cry if you want to,” said Doyle. He would have said the same to Cheryl, under similar circumstances.**

**“No. Don’t want that. Want sex.”**

**“Easy,” said Doyle. He rubbed his body against the one he held, feeling its needs, feeling his own spurt of triumph that he could help him, that he could inspire this desire with barely a touch. Bodie was kissing his face and holding his arse, undressing himself and Doyle by turns, mumbling on about what he wanted and how he wanted it in a ceaseless and incoherent stream of words, and Doyle was encouraging him with eager fingers, answering “Yes!” to barely-asked questions, reaching for flesh that bared itself before him with hands and lips and tongue.**

**He did not go back home till well after midnight.**

**Cheryl moved over in the bed, sleepily. “Ray? Where were you? Cooper said you left early.”**

**Shit. He had no excuse prepared: his excuse was always work. More often than not, it was work that kept him late. Then there were those times with Bodie.**

**So he told part of the truth. “Someone died. I had to help for a bit. Talk to the survivors.”**

**“Oh, dear.” Cheryl soothed his hair. She rolled over, kissing him. Doyle froze, suddenly worried. She’ll smell Bodie on me, he thought irrationally; he’d bathed since they’d touched. Except for a few embraces, kisses, caresses before he had forced himself out the door.**

**She wanted sex. He’d done it with Bodie three times, or maybe three and half, and that didn’t count the bathtub. He couldn’t. He was exhausted. But he always reacted to her touch, always, she knew that, unless he’d just done it.**

**He’d just done it.**

**“Ray?” she said.**

**“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just so tired.” He kissed her hair.**

**“Go to sleep, then,” she said, and she did.**

**Doyle lay awake, thinking, holding her, until hours later he dropped off too.**

**Going over the notes on Wipps, Doyle found another list of addresses of property he had dabbled in. He ran over the list, recognising half the names as places he and Bodie had checked in the search for Finlay. They’d been over and over those lists.**

**Even so, as thorough as he was trying to be, Doyle missed it on first reading and had to go back to it. Romany Road. Why was that familiar? He had to turn to his London A to Z to find it, and there it was, plain as day and twice as memorable. The day he had met Bodie. The house on Romany Road, filled with illicit high-tech weapons, one of which had almost killed Bodie, almost before his eyes, before he had more than a glimpse of intense the blue eyes and expressive mouth.**

**Finlay had been working on top secret material for the military, encoding information. Which could include designs for weapons, for guns so new their design was unknown to Bodie. They had already been made . . . . If there was time for that, then Finlay had been selling his expertise, and was no innocent.**

**Had he tried to sell to more than one bidder? Was that why they killed him?**

**He wanted to discuss it with Bodie, but Bodie had gone out of town on another case.**

**Doyle tried not to think of what might happen to him on a case. Ever since the death of 5.6, Doyle had been twitchy about the risks Bodie took as a matter of course. Too many things could happen to a CI5 man. Guns, fatal explosions, the constant presence of potential death, an unspoken part of his job. Sometimes his work was more dangerous than at other times. Bodie had told him once, in bed, of a situation in which a vengeful saboteur had arranged the deaths one by one of the CI5 agents. Partners were  
left without partners. The killer had almost got Cowley --something Bodie regarded as the worst possibility of all. Doyle could think of a far nastier outcome. Bodie in a small trailer, hunting with a metal detector for a bomb that might be anywhere, might go off at any moment. “I was deaf for an hour,” said Bodie. **

**But on this occasion he was back in another day, hearing and limbs all intact. They played darts at the pub, and went to bed gloriously, happily drunk.**

**Cheryl was not happy when he came home after what was obviously a boozy night, and pushed his advances aside. “Go to sleep, do,” she snapped. He did.**

**The next day, Bodie was over again. He played ring-toss with the children, and let Kevin ride on his shoulders.**

**After dinner, while Doyle was finishing a jigsaw puzzle with Sarah just before sending her to bed, Cheryl said to Bodie, “Come help me in the kitchen. I want to talk to you.” Kevin and Michael were already in bed.**

**So Bodie dried while she washed up. Cheryl said, “I’ll be blunt. Is Ray seeing someone?”**

**“Pardon?” said Bodie.**

**“Does he have a girlfriend? A mistress? Is my Ray having an affair?”**

**“Whatever gave you that idea?”**

**“Don’t play stupid with me, Bodie. I know him. He’s changed. Something is happening. He’s different, in bed and out. He spends a lot of his evenings away from home. That isn’t like him. He says it’s work. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it might be. Sometimes I know it isn’t. What’s happening?”**

**She stared to cry, quietly, over the sink.**

**Bodie put his hands on her shoulders. “Cheryl? Don’t cry.”**

**“I don’t know what to do!”**

**He held her, ignoring the soapy water soaking his shirt from her hands. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he said. “Ask him.”**

**“I’m afraid to.” She sniffed, stared at her soapy hands, and grabbed the towel off Bodie’s shoulder to wipe them, and then her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m such a . . . .”**

**“It’s all right. You love him, that’s all.”**

**“Bodie, I love him so much. I’m afraid I’ll lose him. Who could it be? Cooper? I know she lies for him sometimes. But I don’t think that’s it. I just don’t know. I can’t believe it, but --”**

**“Ask him about it. Even if I knew, I couldn’t say anything.”**

**There was a long, thoughtful silence. Slowly she looked up, to stare fretfully into his eyes. “You know, don’t you?” she said.**

**“I didn’t say that.”**

**“But you do know.”**

**He shook his head. He said truthfully, “If there is something to tell, I think he should tell you. Your love will either pull you through, or it won’t. Be understanding. Have faith.”**

**“He’s been under such strain,” she said putting her head on Bodie’s shoulder again. “And he hardly makes love to me at all.” Bodie knew this was not true, though he wished it was. It probably felt true to her. And given what he and Doyle had done lately, small wonder if Doyle hadn’t quite as much energy left for her as he used to have.**

**“I know he loves you,” he said. Small comfort. He looked up over her head, and saw Doyle leaning with both hands on the top of the doorframe, watching them.**

**“Oh, Bodie,” she sniffed. She had not seen Doyle. “You’re so comforting!”**

**“He’s here,” said Bodie quietly, and she jumped.**

**“Yeah,” said Doyle. “What’s wrong?”**

**“I’d better go,” said Bodie.**

**Neither of them stopped him. He took his coat and went into the hallway, with no one to see him out but the dog. “Good-night, Bascombe,” he said, and rubbed his ears in farewell. Bascombe thumped his tail appreciatively.**

**Doyle and Cheryl had a flaming row.**

**Doyle denied that he was seeing another woman. Denied it flatly. Cheryl didn’t believe him. They shouted, as they seldom did. Denials and accusations mixed with cross-examination and an angry refusal to be cross-examined. Doyle wanted to stomp out, but there was nowhere he wanted to go except to Bodie’s flat, and he didn’t want to bring this anger, this problem, to Bodie.**

**He had actually felt a moment of jealousy, seeing Bodie in Cheryl’s arms. It didn’t help that he couldn’t think which of them he had been jealous of, or why. It didn’t help that he felt guilty and defensive.**

**When they went upstairs to bed at last, he saw Sarah looking nervously out at them, from behind the door to her bedroom. He would have gone and spoken to her, except she shut the door quickly. He decided that worrying about one female in the family at a time was enough.**

**He slept on one side of the bed, Cheryl on the other. Neither slept much.**

**Nor did it help that he went to Bodie the next evening, after dinner was eaten with an air of unusual tension between him and Cheryl. The children, sensing the friction between their parents, were subdued. Doyle hated it. Every time he looked at Cheryl he felt furiously guilty and furiously angry. He took it out on Bodie between the covers, in fierce and demanding sex that brought a glow to Bodie’s blue eyes.**

**The phone rang. “Hell,” said Doyle. He put his head in the pillow. He knew what this meant. The terse, “Yes, sir,” followed by double-quick-time out the door, a brief kiss good-bye if he was lucky, with Bodie’s mind already elsewhere.**

**This time, Bodie said, “Hello, Cheryl.” His right hand held the receiver, his left hand played with Doyle’s hair. Doyle raised his head to prop his chin on his hands, folded on the pillow. “I don’t know where he is,” said Bodie. “Listen, luv, I wish I could help. I don’t like to see you unhappy, either of you. Doyle hasn’t said anything to me about any girlfriend. If he did, it would be on the understanding I wasn’t to tell you.”**

**She spoke again, at length.**

**“He doesn’t want to hurt you,” said Bodie. “I know that.” His hand played with Doyle’s face, but Doyle slipped away from him, and went to stand by the window, his fingers fiddling with the window-cord. Bodie watched his motionless back, the shadows delineating well-defined muscles.**

**After listening some more, Bodie said, “When I see him, I’ll tell him how you feel. I’ll tell him that if he has something going on, he should tell you or put an end to it. All right. Now stop worrying! Won’t do you, or him, or the children any good.”**

**Doyle turned to watch Bodie. His face was tight. He didn’t enjoy listening to this.**

**Bodie said, “I have to go, Cheryl. I’m not alone.”**

**She spoke at length, no doubt apologising. He said, “It’s all right, luv. Take care.” He slammed the receiver down, fast. Then he put the telephone aside and held his arms out for Doyle. Doyle slid into them, kissing him with silent need.**

**It was a glorious night, fuelled by anger and lust. Once again, he exhausted Bodie.**

**Afterwards, the price was guilt again. He could not keep the anger alive. Cheryl was hurting because she loved him, and he loved her, and he had caused her hurting. How to stop it?**

**He could stop seeing Bodie.**

**Unthinkable.**

**How else?**

**Bodie wanted him to tell Cheryl the truth. He knew it without discussing it with him. Bodie wanted to see if she would leave him, then. As she no doubt would. Her husband, running around with another man -- of course she would leave him, taking Kevin, Michael and Sarah with her, and no doubt Bascombe and the cats as well.**

**Unthinkable.**

**But how to breach the stony wall of her distrust, when he was, in fact, having an affair? Invent a woman?**

**No, that wouldn’t work. Though Doyle was trained to see through the most devious subterfuge of the criminals he pursued, he had the inability of the habitually honest to come up with good lies. He knew that Bodie was much more polished in deception, and that the Controller Cowley was a Grand Master of lies. He did not like lying to Cheryl; he hated it. Which was one reason he did it so badly. And yet, he saw no alternative except to tell the truth --which meant losing her --or giving up Bodie, which was eternally impossible.**

**He must have moved in the bed, because Bodie said, “Still awake?”**

**“Yeah. Worried about Cheryl.”**

**Bodie put his arm around Doyle, and they snuggled together. “About losing her?”**

**Doyle nuzzled Bodie’s cheek. “Yeah.”**

**“Would she leave you?” Bodie ran his fingers down the smooth links of Doyle’s neck-chain, enjoying its metallic fluidity against his sensitive fingers and Doyle’s warm skin.**

**“Christ, yes. Wouldn’t you, if you were her?”**

**“No,” said Bodie. “I can’t imagine leaving you under any circumstances at all.”**

**“You aren’t a woman,” said Doyle, unnecessarily and accurately. “Think of the talk. I’d probably lose my job, and you, yours.”**

**Bodie didn’t answer.**

**“Can’t tell anyone about us, Bodie, no one at all. We decided that.”**

**“I told Cowley,” said Bodie.**

**“What?” Doyle sat up. He fumbled for the lamp. Bodie covered his eyes with his arm, against the sudden glare. “You did what?”**

**“Doyle, do we really need the light? I told Cowley. I had to.”**

**“Why, for Christ’s sake?”**

**“He needed to know. Security reasons. If I have a permanent lover, CI5 has to know about it. Just like they have to give permission for agents who want to marry, or whatever.”**

**“And I’m a whatever?”**

**“You’re in a bad mood.”**

**“Full points for observation. And you didn’t even see fit to tell me you were going to tell Cowley?”**

**“Why, to get your permission? It was none of your business. It was between me and the Cow.”**

**“None of my business! Just my fucking life, that’s what it is. What if Cowley told the Superintendent?”**

**“He didn’t. He wouldn’t. There’s no man on earth with a secret like Cowley. He has told no one.”**

**“How do you know?”**

**“I know, that’s all.**

**“And did he give his . . . permission?”**

**“He didn’t stop me. That’s good enough.”**

**“Fuck,” said Doyle. “I suppose if he told you to drop me, you would.”**

**There was a long silence. Then Bodie said, “I don’t suppose tonight you’ll believe me if I say no, I wouldn’t.”**

**Doyle thought about it. He thought about Bodie’s body, within his reach. He thought about Bodie, and CI5, and his own work with Scotland Yard CID. Sometimes it seemed very important. Sometimes it seemed like nothing, a drop in the bucket beside an ocean that was the world of crime. He said, “You still aren’t sleeping with anyone but me, are you?”**

**“No.”**

**“Four months now.”**

**Bodie didn’t answer. He knew how long it had been since that first miraculous night.**

**“And I’m the only one you’re fucking?”**

**“Yes.”**

**“Why? For God’s sake, why? I have Cheryl, you have no one. I never asked for fidelity. I can’t reciprocate. I don’t deserve to have you to myself. Why, Bodie?”**

**“You tire me out,” said Bodie, smiling. “Don’t worry about it, Ray. It isn’t for your sake.”**

**“So why?”**

**Bodie said softly, “Because before I met you, I had no one.” He touched Doyle’s cheek. “Now I have everything in the world.”**

**Tears pricked at Doyle’s eyes. He grabbed Bodie’s hand in his. “Love you,” he said.**

**Bodie leaned over and kissed him.**

**Back home, he made a fragile peace. “I’m not having it on with some girlfriend,” he said. “I was angry that you thought I was. Been working on a few bad cases, resent the time they take. I’m sorry you suffered for it.”**

**She waited a long moment, then capitulated. “Oh, Ray.” She put her arms around him. “I love you so much. You seemed to be slipping away from me, and sometimes I don’t think you’re sorry about it.”**

**“Don’t want to slip away from you,” he said. “Don’t want to lose you for anything.”**

**She moved into his arms. “How do you do it? I love you as much as when we first met.”**

**“More,” said Doyle.**

**“More. And me an old woman with three children.”**

**“My three beautiful children.”**

**“Don’t ever leave me, Ray. Please.”**

**“Won’t ever,” he said, and took her to bed.**

**Bodie and Susan were on a stakeout in Earl’s Court, at a coin laundry. Susan, beside him, said, “Okay, tell me about her.”**

**“About who?” said Bodie, suspiciously.**

**“This girl you’re seeing.”**

**“I’m not seeing a girl.”**

**The look she gave him was half scornful, half curious. “Go on. Anyone with half an eye can see you’re in love, and you have been for months. I can tell by your mood how long it’s been since you’ve seen her. I can tell when you’re thinking about her by the look in your eye. You’re blind stinking raving in love and this has been going on for months.”**

**Bodie smiled. With anyone else he might have resented the interrogation, but this was Susan, his partner, the one he normally shared everything with. Within limits. But those limits were not narrow, never had been. Susan knew things about him no other human being had known. She had accompanied him through hell time and again, and they shared the bond that two people know when they have faced death together, and saved each other from it at considerable personal risk, and have stood in each other’s arms shaking with the relief of survival. He could tell Susan anything, and trust her with it. It wasn’t just that he could trust him with his life, he did that routinely. It was that he could trust her with his life and soul.**

**Of course he could tell her, though no doubt Doyle would be angry again. Bodie wanted to keep quiet for Doyle’s sake, but he was having some difficulty in keeping his own secret. Doyle was a part of his life so huge and important it was difficult not to mention him. Being in the euphoria of love, as had been so obvious to Susan, Bodie had some trouble not mentioning him just for the joy of it. Just to say the name, Doyle, sparked happiness within him.**

**Only Cowley knew. Given the circumstances, no one else should know. But he could not share his joy by talking to Cowley who, despite his grudging acceptance of the situation, strongly disapproved. Somewhere in that worldly, experienced, battered mind was the vestige of a Presbyterian conscience and outdated ethics: an affair that involved adultery and homosexuality could not earn approval from him. Somewhere also in his reaction was the bottom line of everything he had done for seven years, after a lifetime of set-up: the affair was not in CI5’s interests, therefore it was risky at best, and unnecessary.**

**And lying below both considerations, Bodie judged, was the most important factor of all, a personal concern: he feared Doyle would walk out on Bodie, leaving Bodie desolate.**

**Bodie could not reassure him. It was altogether possible. It might happen, as Bodie knew how Doyle was torn. Knew how he hated to lie to Cheryl --which was one reason he wanted Doyle to tell her the truth about them. Knew the strains Doyle felt. Didn’t want Doyle’s love for him to decay under the weight of its own guilt.**

**Whether Cowley was insightful enough to guess this, or simply wary of any relationship with such a precarious background, Bodie wasn’t sure.**

**The result was isolation. This change in his life, momentous for him, meaning everything, was something he had been unable to share with anyone. It meant more to him than anything that had ever happened to him, except perhaps joining CI5.**

**It was the isolation of the agent in the field. It was as if he were, now, permanently in the field.**

**And Susan deserved to know. She had half-guessed already, would probably fully guess soon. She knew him that well.**

**“So? Give.”**

**“I’m in love with a man.”**

**Susan the imperturbable turned her head to stare at him, and he laughed. “Got you!” he said.**

**“It’s a joke, then?” She looked as if she wanted to read his mind. She looked as if she did not believe it was a joke.**

**“No. It’s the truth.”**

**“Cowley know?”**

**“Of course.”**

**“What’d he say?”**

**“What do you think he said? Don’t do it, he said. But he couldn’t stop me.”**

**“He could, you know. He could fire you.”**

**“He’s not a bigot.”**

**“Security agencies --”**

**“Have to be like Caesar’s wife. I know. But my lover has a good security clearance.”**

**“You sure?”**

**“I’m sure. So is Cowley. Suze, aren’t you going to wish me well?”**

**“Maybe. In a minute. Tell me who it is, first.”**

**“Ray Doyle.”**

**“The clever one with the curly hair and the funny cheek?”**

**“That’s him.”**

**“Well knock me down with a poleaxe,” said Susan. “And here I thought you were straight. I thought I knew you better than anyone else. I thought you couldn’t keep a secret from me. I even slept with you for Christ’s sake, and I thought you were straight.”**

**“Was fun, wasn’t it?” said Bodie, remembering.**

**“And now? Is it the real thing?”**

**“Real as it gets,” said Bodie, sobering.**

**“Are you going to live with him?”**

**“I’d like to. But . . . can’t. Wouldn’t work out.”**

**“Why not?”**

**“His job, for one thing. And . . . .”**

**“What?”**

**Because it was Susan and he was closer to her than anyone else except Doyle, and because he was never a coward, he said, “He doesn’t want to leave his wife and kids.”**

**“Oh, Bodie!”**

**“Yeah,” said Bodie.**

**She said, “Are you sure . . . ?”**

**“What, that I love him? As deeply as anything I ever felt. He transformed my life, luv. He means everything to me.”**

**“And does he love you that much?”**

**“Yeah.”**

**“But not enough to leave . . . .”**

**“It would tear him apart,” said Bodie. “There’d only be half of him left. I don’t want that for him, a half life. It would be like expecting me to leave CI5 for his sake.”**

**“Would you?” she said. “Suppose Cowley told you that you had to break off with him or be fired. What then?”**

**“I’d fight Cowley.”**

**“Good luck, boyo. I don’t think so. I don’t think you’d last one round. And when he won, what would you do then?”**

**He looked at her thoughtfully. “You think the Cow will do that?”**

**“I don’t know.”**

**“I don’t think he will. And if he did . . . I’d choose Doyle.”**

**“Oh, Bodie,” she said sadly.**

**“Don’t look like that,” he said. “Be happy for me. I’ve never been happier in my life.”**

**“You can live like that?”**

**“I’ve never been happier,” he repeated. “Is that so hard to believe? Or that my happiness lies in his, and I wouldn’t want him to lose the family he loves?”**

**Susan shook her head. “I just wish,” she said, “that you had a brother just like you, who wasn’t in CI5.”**

**“I’m unique,” said Bodie smugly.**

**She nodded. “Lucky for the world.” After a moment she added, “And lucky for Doyle. He has his work cut out for him, he does.”**

**\---**

****eight** **

**Two days later, Cheryl came to see Bodie at his flat.**

**She had never been there before, because there had been no occasion. Bodie did not often entertain. Doyle was welcome to treat it as his home, which, in Bodie’s mind, it was.**

**Other than Doyle and Susan, few were invited into the place Bodie saw as his refuge from the wilderness. Cowley had come there, often enough, without invitation: this was as it should be. Bodie did not host parties. He had brought women home to other flats at other times, but since he had moved here, he had visited them at their homes instead.**

**After that, Doyle.**

**So Cheryl’s visit was a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. As Doyle’s wife, she had a special place in Bodie’s concerns. He liked her on a personal level. More, he appreciated how good she was to Doyle, and how necessary a part she was of Doyle’s daily life. For that, he would have offered her anything --the moon, or his last penny. Doyle’s happiness was the most valuable thing in the world to him.**

**Underlying all these very real considerations was an equally real streak of jealousy that Bodie was well aware of. It was partly because she had Doyle’s love in such great measure, but even more because she shared so much with him that Bodie never could. The domestic life, the children, the public experience of being seen as a couple by the rest of the world. He envied her that.**

**On the other hand, he knew he offered Doyle a few things she never could. Excitement of a different kind, shared experiences of similar professions, the fun of shooting bottles at an old farm. Her undoubted femininity weighed on both the credit and debit sides of the balance; she could be complement and contrast to Doyle’s masculinity, while Bodie was its mirror image and its echo.**

**When she arrived, he was cleaning, sorting, and remounting his gun collection. “These are all yours?” she asked, in amazement, fingering an antique pistol.**

**“Been collecting for years. That one,” he said, nodding at the one she was holding, “that’s from the eighteenth century. Belonged to some bloke who ended up in Wellington’s army. I’m not sure, but he might have had that one in America before that.”**

**“Fancy.”**

**“It isn’t my oldest, though. I have one seventeenth century Italian model, but I keep it in its case.”**

**She smiled. “You love your guns, don’t you?”**

**He smiled back. “They’re my private bit of history.”**

**“What would you do, if they’d never invented gunpowder?”**

**He considered it. “Specialize in archery, probably.”**

**“Always projectile weapons? You know what they say, don’t you? About overcompensation?”**

**He smiled again. “Want me to demonstrate?”**

**“Bodie!”**

**“I meant the weapons, luv.”**

**“Like hell you did.” But she enjoyed the tease. Then her smile faded. “You know about the fight Ray and I had.”**

**“Uh-huh. Thought you made up afterwards.”**

**“We did. But . . . .”**

**“But?”**

**“We made up because I pretended to believe his lies. He was lying, Bodie, from beginning to end. He really does have someone else.”**

**Bodie didn’t answer.**

**She sat on one of his bar stools. “He has a chain. He got it on his birthday. He won’t take it off. I know she gave it to him. He won’t explain --said he picked it up himself, but that’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t do that. In all the years I’ve known him, he wouldn’t do that.”**

**“So he did it. You expect him to be always the same?”**

**“I don’t expect him to become a liar. This is Ray, who never tells a lie to me or the kids. Never did before. Who can she be, Bodie? How could anyone mean so very much to him?”**

**Bodie turned away, carefully and purposefully locking a small mahogany gun-case. This was harder than he had anticipated. To speak now would be to lose faith with Doyle. To speak now was impossible. Not to speak was painful.**

**“You see him a lot, Bodie. You’re his closest friend. You can talk to him about some things better than I can. Did you talk to him about me?”**

**“Told him what you said.”**

**“What did he say?”**

**“He said he didn’t have a girlfriend and he’d talk to you about it.”**

**“Bloody hell,” she said. Bodie almost smiled, she sounded so like Doyle when she said it. “So he’s lying to you, too.”**

**Bodie bit back the impulse to defend Doyle’s honour. The truth, of course, was worse than the lie, and worse than the fact of lying. He could not betray Doyle by telling her anything. And if he were to tell her, how could he defend Doyle? She would trust nothing he said; she would hate him. Well, he could handle that. Take the blame on himself, protect Doyle, claim it as his fault, say he had seduced him . . . say Doyle had never wanted it.**

**But that was a lie as well. He could not mend one lie with another, and he could not tell the truth when Doyle did not wish it. So against his will he said nothing.**

**Her eyes were dark with anxiety. “How can I win him back?”**

**“Be patient. If he loves you, you’ll keep him.”**

**“Does he love me?”**

**“I know he does.”**

**“I thought I knew him so well. We’ve been together so long, almost ten years now. We were happy together. I thought --I used to be able to read his feelings. Now I can’t.”**

**“He loves you,” said Bodie again, but he had turned his face away, putting a gun on its rack.**

**“You want him to stay with me, don’t you? You know I’m best for him. Better than --whoever it is.”**

**“I’m sure you’ll work something out,” said Bodie.**

**There was a case involving drugs, diamonds and the Japanese. Bodie and Susan handled it well enough to earn Cowley’s rare praise, and an invitation to the pub with him. Susan turned it down because she had a date, so Bodie and Cowley went together, and sat in comfort on a leather seat in a comfortable alcove.**

**“Cheers,” said Bodie, amicably. He was still dealing with the overdose of adrenaline. On evenings like this, he used to look for a girl. Now he itched to call Doyle, but restrained himself.**

**Cowley said, “I was thinking of putting Susan on undercover work for a bit.”**

**Bodie frowned. “Just Susan? Not me?”**

**“Aye. You work well with her, but I only need one agent in this case, and it has to be a woman. Your partnership has worked out well.”**

**“Best I ever had. Except,” he added with amusement, “for Inspector Ray Doyle.”**

**“Ah. Doyle. You are still seeing him?”**

**“Whenever possible.”**

**“That was a bad business, the Finlay case. To prove the Russian connection . . . . Well, it might come out at Wipps’ trial. You think you worked better with Doyle as your partner than do you do with Susan?”**

**“Yes,” said Bodie. He winked at a barmaid, who seemed to be expecting it. “She’s too bossy in bed.”**

**It was sometimes a gamble, with Cowley, to say something like that. But as he had hoped, the Old Man snorted with laughter, and snapped, for form’s sake, “You’re incorrigible, Bodie.”**

**“Always,” admitted Bodie.**

**“It’s working out, then? Is it? You and Doyle?”**

**“Yes. No. Maybe,” said Bodie. “How can I tell? I only hope to see him whenever I can, and not to ruin his life.”**

**“Or he yours,” said Cowley.**

**Bodie glanced at the Controller, and saw the concern there: not disapproval, which he had seen before, but the alarm of a man who fears his friend has made a dreadful mistake.**

**He could not think how to reassure him. There were no guarantees in life. Cowley knew that as well as he did.**

**“If there is a price, it’s worth it,” he said.**

**Two days went by, then three. Doyle did not come, or call. Bodie concluded he was busy with the Wipps/Finlay case, and smoothing things over with Cheryl.**

**It was excruciating.**

**He had known, despite his belief that it did not matter, that there would be times like this. Times when the jealousy came to the fore, times when he wanted to be possessive and yearned for the right. Times when he would want sex with Doyle, and have no Doyle on hand to lure into his arms. Times when he simply longed to hear his voice.**

**Whenever there was a time like this, he became edgy, jumpy, short-tempered. In the past, he would have picked up a sweet and willing blonde and worked out his frustrations in her sweet, willing body. That solution was no longer an option. He took a stubborn, perverse pride in being faithful to Doyle. The thing Doyle could not offer him, he could offer to Doyle. A gift, a tribute, unasked and possibly unwanted, but given from the heart, and of some true value to both of them. Bodie in his way was as proud and stubborn as Doyle was.**

**He worked some of the energy off in martial arts, all the while wondering what was happening with Cheryl. He tried not to think about it: what would happen if Cheryl had enough, went away. If she learned the truth. If she left.**

**Doyle’s heart would break. But Bodie would be there to comfort him, wouldn’t he?**

**He wanted Doyle with him permanently, and the intensity of the desire horrified him. He didn’t want to drag Doyle away from a life where he had been happy, away from the children and wife who was good for him, good to him. He wanted Doyle with him all the time, that was all he wanted.**

**An insoluble problem.**

**Early love turned to tragedy and left him cynical about its prospects in future. He had given himself to the army, to CI5, to something larger than himself: Cowley’s dream of a better nation, one free from threat or fear of danger. Love was out of the question, and he had nothing of himself to give that wasn’t already given to CI5.**

**Until now.**

**He wanted Doyle permanently in his life.**

**It was not that he felt possessive. He had no domestic urges, none any greater than he had ever had before: setting up housekeeping wasn’t his style, it was takeaway and coin laundry for him, and whatever curtains CI5 decorators deemed safest on his windows were fine with him. He was always thankful he had no wife to fuss over him and tell him what to do, no parents to interfere in his choices, no one to whom he need answer for his life --except Cowley. And Cowley would only presume to interfere in matters that affected CI5.**

**That was, at least, the assumption he had always operated under.**

**He had never wanted children of his own. If, from time to time, he felt a pang when talking with Michael, it wasn’t because he wanted a son of his own, except in the most abstract way. It was because Michael was a great kid, and in so many ways like his father, though neither of them had noticed that yet.**

**So he did not begrudge Cheryl the house she shared with Doyle, or her role in his life.**

**He loved Cheryl because Doyle loved Cheryl. He loved Cheryl because she was cute and smart and sensible, and he liked women like that. If she wasn’t married to Doyle, he’d be flirting with her himself.**

**He wanted her gone, because she threatened his relationship with Doyle.**

**Two days later, Cheryl was awake when Doyle got back from Bodie’s place. She let him come into the bedroom and take off his shoes before she said, “Who were you with?”**

**Doyle shook his head. “Would you believe me if I told you? I wasn’t with some woman. If you must know, I was visiting Bodie.”**

**“I don’t believe you. Did Bodie tell you I visited him the other day?”**

**“Yeah. He said he told you to talk to me.”**

**“Well?”**

**“There is no well.” He took off his shirt.**

**“You’ve been unfaithful.”**

**“Cheryl --”**

**“Admit it! You can’t deny it!”**

**“Stop acting like a shrew,” he snapped, driven by guilt into aggression.**

**She pointed at the chain. “Who is that from, then?”**

**“No one. Drop it.”**

**“Damn you, Ray, who gave it to you?”**

**He turned to go out --to go to the loo --but she stopped him with words. “Take it off.”**

**“What?”**

**“The chain. Take it off.”**

**He looked at her, face closed and unrevealing, body unconsciously posed in a position of sensual beauty. “No,” he said flatly.**

**“Ray. Please. If I mean anything to you . . . .”**

**“Don’t ask me to take it off,” he said.**

**“I did. I do. Ray!”**

**“No.” He hardly spoke the word, merely framed it with his mouth.**

**Furious, she reached forward and grabbed the chain around his neck, and pulled.**

**The fragile links snapped, the gold not created to withstand the force she used. It fell, loose and dangling, into her fist.**

**She was not looking at it. She was staring at Doyle, at the look in his eyes, which frightened her at last.**

**“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Ray, I’m sorry.”**

**He picked up his shirt, and walked out of the bedroom. He picked up his coat on the hook at the bottom of the stairs, and went on going out the door. He went to his car, and started it; drove away into the darkness.**

**Cheryl sat on the bed, the chain in her hands. “I’m so very sorry,” she whispered, but there was no one to hear.**

**Bodie woke when his door opened, alert on the instant. He recognised Doyle’s step, and did not reach for his gun. “Ray?” he said. He turned on the light by the bed.**

**Doyle stood in the bedroom doorway, a rumpled silhouette. “Can I stay here?”**

**Bodie swept back the covers with a sweeping gesture.**

**Doyle lay down beside him, so extremely tired. He felt Bodie’s hand run through his hair, down his spine, back over his neck. “You okay, Doyle?”**

**“Tired. Had a fight with Cheryl again.” He turned his head. “She broke the chain.”**

**Bodie noticed then that Doyle was not wearing it. He had been wearing it steadily since his birthday. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s only a chain.”**

**“Meant a lot to me.”**

**“Just a symbol,” said Bodie. “Doesn’t touch the reality.”**

**Doyle digested that, and broke into a startling smile. “You’re right.”**

**“Course I am.”**

**Doyle moved a little closer. “You’re good for me.”**

**“I know that.”**

**He put his arms around Bodie, put his head on his shoulder. “I’m such a fool sometimes. Lose track of what’s important.”**

**Bodie stared to kiss his face. “Like this?”**

**“Yeah . . . .”**

**“And this?” He was working his way down Doyle’s neck, down his body.**

**“Oh, yeah . . . .”**

**He went home in the morning, before work, for a change of clothes. The older children had left for school. Cheryl was about to take Kevin to the babysitter, and go to work.**

**On exactly the same breath, they each said, “I’m sorry --” and stopped.**

**They both laughed, giddy with relief.**

**“I am sorry,” said Cheryl. “I didn’t mean to break your gold chain. I’ll get it fixed today, truly I will.”**

**“You had every reason,” said Doyle.**

**“You were right. I was a shrew. Whoever she is, she must seem very sweet-tempered compared to me.”**

**“It isn’t like that,” said Doyle. The conversation was rapidly developing pitfalls he wasn’t sure he could handle.**

**“No? Why not?”**

**He couldn’t answer. He shook his head. Instead of being angry, she hugged him. “I”m off to work, darling. You know I love you. I was angry . . . . I was upset because I feared I was losing you.”**

**“You’re not,” he said.**

**“Truly?” She stared at his face, as if to read his mind. “What is happening, then? Not a casual affair, I think.”**

**“Don’t,” said Doyle. “Exploring that will just make it more difficult, for both of us.”**

**“She must be very special,” said Cheryl. Her voice held longing, and sorrow, and puzzlement.**

**“You are special,” said Doyle. “You are my wife and my dear love. Don’t forget that, just because things get complicated.”**

**“I don’t understand,” said Cheryl.**

**He drove to work, worrying. He could not explain to her. How could he?**

**In his office, he threw his jacket over the coat-tree and sipped absent-mindedly at his coffee. The phone rang, and he answered it automatically. “Doyle.”**

**“You’ve gone too far,” said the voice, chillingly unknown and instantly remembered. “You’ll die, Doyle. Get off the case or die.”**

**It was not much to go on. He made a note of the call in his notebook; the date, the time, the words. Always too short a conversation to be traced. Always the same low voice. Had he detected an accent? He couldn’t be sure.**

**And Cheryl, in her own way, worried and continued to worry. When he phoned two days later to say he’d be home late, she sat up, waiting for him, but he did not come home.**

**The children were at her parents’ for a few days, a precious and long-planned treat for them. She felt the emptiness of the house like that of an abandoned tomb. Seconds ticked by, one by one, slowly. She felt threatened, frightened. Her home had been filled with such life, and now it was dead. Why?**

**It was midnight. It was one, then two. She got dressed, and went to her car. She needed to talk to someone. Who, in the middle of the night? She could think of only one person who would listen to her, who knew Doyle well enough to be trusted with her worries, and who cared enough for them both to want to  
help her. **

**She went to visit Bodie.**

**Cheryl parked, staring at the motor in front of her. The familiar number plate, the familiar white Ford Escort, the familiar scratch on the hood, invisible in the dark. She tried to think how and why Doyle could be here. Was she entirely wrong, and he had been working, and come here to see Bodie afterwards? Or had he been hurt?**

**She wasn’t thinking straight. If he had been hurt in the line of duty, Brace or Cooper would have called her. If he had been hurt in another way, and had gone to Bodie for help, Bodie would have rung her, knowing how worried she was.**

**No explanation came to mind.**

**There was only one way to find out. She rang Bodie’s bell, hard.**

**Silence, except for the night-time roar of London traffic, quieter in this residential street than on the main road behind her. A breeze in the trees. A sense of urban peace.**

**She rang again, leaning on the buzzer.**

**Then Bodie’s voice in the intercom. “Yeah, what is it?”**

**“Cheryl,” she said. “I want to see you. Is Ray there?”**

**There was a short pause. Then Bodie said, “You’d better come up.”**

**She went up the stairs, wondering at his tone. The tone of a man wakened in the middle of the night by a friend? Not exactly. She did not know why, but her heart was beating hard from more than the exertion of the climb. She pounded on the door, and it opened quickly.**

**Bodie was wearing a navy dressing gown made of silk, and probably nothing else. There was one light by the chesterfield near the bedroom door, but the rest of the flat was in darkness. “Hi, Cheryl,” he said, without welcome. With resignation.**

**She said, “Is Ray here? I saw his car out front.”**

**“Yeah, he’s here,” said Bodie, and nothing more.**

**She frowned. Filled with dread, she found it difficult to think, as if something had happened and Bodie thought she knew it. Was something wrong with Ray? But Bodie would have said so, would be  
talking to her now about it. Bodie did not look as if he’d been up. He looked, in fact, like a man who had been enjoying himself with his girlfriend and had been interrupted. **

**A terrible thought was forming itself in her mind: surely Ray wouldn’t bring his girlfriend here? And surely Bodie wouldn’t let him?**

**She said, a little more sharply than she intended, “Where?” Bodie jerked his head towards the bedroom door.**

**She went to the door. Doyle was in the bed alone. He had just reached over to switch on the bedside lamp, and the motion had pulled the sheet half off him, showing him to be naked. And in that moment Cheryl took in the disordered bed and the sated contentment in Ray’s face that disappeared the moment he saw her.**

**She knew then what he had been hiding from her, and why.**

**“Bodie,” she said. “It was Bodie all along, wasn’t it?”**

**Doyle looked at her with expressive green eyes that she could not interpret at all.**

**Bodie was standing behind her, watching. She turned on him, attacking, ready to kill him, to tear him to pieces, allowing no quarter. Warned and expecting it, he ducked, so her fingernails raked his cheek rather than his eye. She hit him with the other hand, and tried again, using with satisfying instinct those clever moves she had learned in self-defence class. She screamed in fury, attacking with vicious ferocity, and Bodie did nothing to stop her.**

**It was Ray who grabbed her wrists, pulling her back. He was shouting, too. She struggled against him, and tried to kick. He was too strong for her, and when he shouted, she merely shouted more loudly, trying to get leverage, trying to get away. Then she heard what he was shouting: “Don’t hurt Bodie!”**

**The fight went out of her. She froze, and said in a low voice, “Let go of me.”**

**“Can’t. Not until you promise not to hurt Bodie. He can’t fight you, because you are my wife.”**

**She glared at Doyle, but he released her wrists. She rubbed them. “Am I?”**

**“Until you say otherwise.”**

**She stared angrily at him, seeing the casual nakedness, the viscous remains of his or Bodie’s semen on his abdomen, the beautiful body whose temptations and secrets and skills she knew too well. “You’re disgusting!”**

**“Quite probably,” he said. “But don’t hurt Bodie because you’re angry with me.”**

**“How could you?” she spat.**

**“I fell in love with him,” he said simply.**

**That unleashed the tears, sending them washing down her face, without sobs, with a kind of facial spasm that was painful to watch. Doyle took her in his arms and held her, soothing her, running his hand over her hair, murmuring, “It’s all right, it’ll be all right.” He wondered if he could bear this. He kissed her temple, glancing at Bodie. Bodie’s face was dark and shadowed, and he was watching every caress, every gesture. Damn.**

**Doyle couldn’t deal with the feelings of both of them at once. He said, “I love you, Cheryl. It’s true. Don’t turn away, love, we’ll make it work out.”**

**She pulled back to look incredulously into his face. “Love me?”**

**“I’d do anything for you,” he said simply.**

**“Except be faithful? I thought that was a minimum requirement for marriage.”**

**“I was faithful to you. Until I met Bodie.”**

**She flinched. “Michael told me he saw you kissing. I didn’t believe him --told him he’d misunderstood.” Behind her, Doyle could see Bodie watching, his arms crossed, his face closed. He  
couldn’t speak to him or gesture or communicate with Cheryl in his arms. **

**As if guessing his thoughts, she pulled away roughly. “Ray. Take me home. Now.”**

**“All right,” he said. “I have to speak to Bodie for a minute, then --”**

**“No,” she said. “Now.”**

**He almost smiled. “I have to get dressed first.”**

**She rolled her eyes. “All right. Get dressed. Now.”**

**It would make sense to talk to Bodie in the bedroom while he got dressed. But he knew that Cheryl wouldn’t stand for it, and if he tried it, he had lost her. Nor did he want to leave them alone in the sitting room. He paused, and it was Bodie, watching perceptively, who got up and walked wordlessly past them both into the kitchen.**

**A few minutes later, dressed, Doyle came out of the bedroom. He kissed Cheryl’s unresponsive forehead and said, “I’ll just be a minute.” He went to the kitchen, and closed the door behind him.**

**Bodie was standing with his back to the room, staring out the window which, in daylight, overlooked the back garden and the back gardens of the neighbours. In the middle of the night, he could see nothing but his own reflection, and perhaps the kitchen behind him, and Doyle standing in it.**

**Doyle said, “Bodie? Are you all right?”**

**“No,” said Bodie, in a low voice.**

**Doyle went to him, gripped him by the arm, turning him around so Bodie would have no choice but to look at him. “Bodie? What’s wrong?”**

**“What do you think is wrong?” Bodie’s face was harsh, his voice tight. There was blood still trickling down his cheek. “I’m bloody terrified, that’s all. Afraid you’ll leave me for good. For her.”**

**Doyle touched Bodie’s cheek tenderly. “Is that all?”**

**“All?”**

**“It won’t happen, mate. I promise you.”**

**“Don’t,” said Bodie. “Don’t make promises. Do what you can, do what you must, but don’t make promises.”**

**“All right,” said Doyle. “Just remember something. I love you. Don’t underestimate my love for you.”**

**Bodie did not answer, except with the expression in his eyes.**

**Doyle kissed him on the mouth, an intense, demanding kiss that in other, better circumstances would have started something.**

**This time, it could lead to nothing. Doyle walked back into the sitting room.**

**Bodie, in the kitchen, heard the front door close behind them.**

**He sat on a kitchen chair, at his round wooden table, and put his head in his hands. He sat there for a long time, not moving, barely breathing. It was almost morning when he went to lie in the bed where so recently Doyle had been with him, and he found he could not sleep with the memory.**

**As luck would have it, Cowley had a heavy op planned for the day. There was no opportunity to feel sorry for himself, or to think about Doyle. The sense of pain did not leave him, but it was abstract, pushed aside by the necessary focus on the work. His life might be destroyed, but it was his job to make sure that others’ lives were not destroyed if he could prevent it. By the time he got back to his bed, thirty hours later, he was too exhausted to even regret that he hadn’t changed the sheets. He slept immediately,  
dreaming of Doyle. **

**The work was neither so intense nor so demanding when he returned after twelve refreshing hours of sleep and Cowley’s benign approval. It was a bodyguarding job for a foreign diplomat, nothing more: Susan was cheerful about it and they got to lounge around a very expensive hotel nursing innocuous drinks, chatting about football and politics. Susan was a good mate, and he was thankful for her simple support.**

**“If you go off on undercover work,” he said gloomily, “what will I do? I’ll be stuck with Anson, I bet. Or that stupid git Overton.”**

**“You might be lucky,” she said. “You might get Liz.”**

**He grunted. He had once quite liked Liz. Now, all he could think of was Doyle.**

**He must have let the pain show. She reached over to him, put her hand on his, and said sympathetically, “Doyle?”**

**“Yeah,” he said.**

**She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. The comfort was welcome, but meaningless.**

**It was fifty-five hours since he had seen Doyle. Doyle had not called. He could have written, but hadn’t.**

**When it was seventy hours, Bodie’s anxiety had coalesced into a bitterness he could not dismiss. Doyle, of course, was not going to call, and he had been mad to think he would. He had known from the beginning it would end like this; Cheryl would find out, and that would be that. Doyle was sincere in his love, Bodie knew that. Knew Doyle must be hurting. But it was his choice to make, and he had chosen Cheryl. She had said, “Take me home. Now.” And they had gone home.**

**Not in the best of circumstances could he give Doyle a home. He wanted what he had, the life he led, the life of a CI5 nomad.**

**And he wanted Doyle in it.**

**He sat in his favourite chair, books untouched, the television off. He wondered if he could have prevented this, staved off the inevitable a little longer, had a few more precious days or nights with Doyle. When Cheryl rang the doorbell, he could have made up some story, couldn’t he? Told her he was with a bird, and busy, and have just sent her home. She’d already seen Doyle’s car --could have said he’d left it there while he followed a lead on that job he was on, the murder of the Hammerford girl.**

**Instead, he had opened the door to her, knowing what she would find. He had not attempted any explanation or excuse. He might have thought of something she would have believed, had he tried. He and Doyle had each, separately or together, been able to bluff through scrapes more difficult than that. Hadn’t they?**

**The truth was, he hadn’t wanted to try. The truth was that he had in his heart of hearts wanted to be caught, had wanted Cheryl to find them together. He was tired of the secrecy and of Doyle’s attitude to it. Somewhere deep in his heart he had hoped, not even daring to admit it to himself, that Cheryl, furious at learning the truth, would say, “Take me home now,” and Doyle would reply, “No. I’m staying with Bodie.”**

**It hadn’t happened that way, had it? Fucking pipe dream. This wasn’t Barbara bloody Cartland, this was his life and Doyle’s, and reality had smacked him on the head when he most needed it.**

**Perhaps the phone would ring.**

**He waited, cursing himself for the waiting, cursing himself for not being able to think of anything else he wanted to do. The phone, of course, did not ring.**

**He found himself grasping at straws, thinking that sometimes when people find themselves in a situation of mutual stress, each is reluctant to disturb the peace of the other. Sometimes in such cases, each hopes the other will call.**

**Did he dare phone Doyle’s place, to offer peace? To re-establish contact? To offer a revival of simple friendship, or an opportunity to talk things over like adults, or to beg?**

**He did not pick up the phone. Doyle did not call. He had no real reason to expect it, after all.**

**Time to say good-bye, then, if even just only in his head. Time to face the pain of parting. The pain that might end someday, if he ever let it. If he could somehow bear it till then.**

**When Bodie’s phone finally rang, he answered so fast the person on the phone was startled. It was not Doyle.**

**“This is Paula Finlay,” said the caller tentatively. “Mr Bodie, I’d like to see you, if that’s possible. I found something curious among my husband’s papers.”**

**“I’ll be right there,” said Bodie.**

**It was a strongbox, locked with a combination. It weighed, perhaps, ten pounds, and was much smaller than a breadbox.**

**“What on earth can it be?” she asked.**

**“I don’t know,” said Bodie. “I have experts who can find out. Will you trust me to take it and open it, Mrs Finlay?”**

**“Of course,” she said. “I don’t want to have anything to do with it. Frankly, it frightens me.”**

**And so it might, thought Bodie, hours later, when their lock expert opened the cover and the contents were revealed.**

**Money. A large quantity of money, and notes referring to a Swiss bank account. A letter, written in English but signed in Russian, pertaining to an unspecified deal involving the exchange of unspecified information in return for an unspecified amount of money. The letter was signed with a name Cowley recognized: Ivan Kalenkov.**

**“Kalenkov is KGB,” said Bodie, stating the obvious.**

**“So he is,” said Cowley. “I think, gentlemen, we have found Finlay’s other employer.”**

**“Do we have enough to arrest Kalenkov?” asked Bodie. “Or to stop him from getting the weapons out of the country?”**

**“Not yet,” said Cowley. “But we’re close, lad. We’ll get him now.”**

**On Dorncliffe Road, the days had passed quietly enough. Cheryl and Doyle didn’t want to upset the kids, but of course they knew something was going on, and reacted with the guilty wariness of bystanders who fear themselves at fault, acting with careful and uncharacteristic decorum until stressed nerves produced, from time to time, a tantrum that was difficult to subdue.**

**It didn’t help from Doyle’s point of view that the damned Hammerford murder necessitated hard work, long hours, and the occasional phone call to explain why he wouldn’t be at home.**

**“It really is work,” he said the first night, apologetic and impatient at the same time, because it was, after all, the truth. Her noncommittal response gave no clue as to whether she believed him or not.**

**At night, she turned her back on him in the bed. He reached out for her, and she pushed him away. “I can’t,” she said, and started to cry.**

**“Want to talk about it?” he asked.**

**She shook her head, and he patted her shoulder, which was all she would let him do, and he left her alone.**

**The second night, tense and still angry, she simply brushed his advances aside and went to sleep.**

**On the afternoon of the next day, Doyle’s phone rang on the desk in his office while he was reviewing evidence about the death of the teenage whore in Soho. “Doyle,” he said. As always now, when the phone rang, for one moment of joy he had hoped it was Bodie. It wasn’t.**

**A voice he did not know said, “You took Wipps. For that, you die.”**

**“Who is this?” snapped Doyle, in no mood for threats.**

**But the line was disconnected. No hope of a trace, assuming it meant anything.**

**What a hell of a week.**

**The third night he said, “We have to talk.”**

**She nodded. She sat in her pyjamas, arms wrapped around her bent knees and her back against the pillows at the headboard. “About Bodie,” she said.**

**He nodded.**

**There was an awkward pause.**

**“We seem to have some trouble getting started on this one,” hazarded Doyle.**

**“So then? You must have some excuse, some justification.”**

**Doyle thought. It was hard to think of it in those terms. To make excuses was pointless: he had wanted an affair with Bodie, and he had done it. How could such an action be justified by any normal standards? Or any standards at all? It had simply been as necessary as breathing, and you don’t need to justify breathing.**

**Which sounded like the feeblest excuse of all. The proverbial “I couldn’t help myself” or, worse, “We both lost control.” It wasn’t like that.**

**What was it like, then? The most sublime thing he had ever experienced, except perhaps his love for Cheryl, or for the children. But different. It defied words. He felt defeated by language.**

**Into his growing silence she said harshly, “Why didn’t you tell me you were gay?”**

**Ah. In scale of difficulty, this was easier; it was climbing Ben Nevis, not Everest. “It would’ve felt like a lie,” he said. “It would make it sound as if . . . well, as if I didn’t love you as I do. If loving him makes me gay, fine. But it doesn’t make me any different from before.”**

**“Before what?”**

**“Before I loved Bodie.”**

**She glared at him. “Out of the blue? Just like that? You’d never looked at another man, and then, wham?”**

**“I wouldn’t say that exactly,” said Doyle, trying hard to be honest. “I looked, sometimes. Fantasized, sometimes. Read those magazines sometimes, you know, the ones that show tall dark and handsome types with erections? It was fun. But I didn’t really think about it much.”**

**“Until you met Bodie.”**

**He said, “It wasn’t that I wanted him because he was a man. It was just he was . . . who he was . . . and I loved him.”**

**“More than you love me?”**

**He spread his hands in a gesture of despair. “I dunno. Not more. Just differently. The same.”**

**“Do you want to leave me? For him?”**

**“Not if you’ll keep me.”**

**“Have you seen him since Saturday?”**

**“No.”**

**“Do you want to see him?”**

**He wanted to see Bodie so badly it hurt. Not to make love with him, but to just see him, make sure he was all right, make sure he was still there. “Of course I do,” he said. “But not until you and I have sorted things out.”**

**“Will you stop seeing him?”**

**“No.”**

**There was a cold, tight silence. She turned her head away. He leaned closer and kissed her shoulder. “Please, love. Listen. If you love me . . . if you still want me . . . don’t just hate me. Listen. I don’t want to lose you. I love you very, very much. Cheryl, please . . . .”**

**“You love me,” she said angrily, “but you don’t love me enough to be faithful.”**

**He could think of no good answer that would please her. “I owe faith to him, too,” he said.**

**“I saw that. You want me, then? Suppose I say, it’s him or me?”**

**Doyle rested his head in the warmth of her lap, nuzzling her soft belly. “Then it’s him.”**

**“Why?”**

**“Because he hasn’t made that demand.”**

**Her hands stroked his hair. “Ray, I have such trouble understanding. You love us both? You can’t decide between us?”**

**“Don’t make me decide between you,” he said. “Please don’t force that choice on me.”**

**She let him kiss the soft skin around her navel, pulling on the loose elastic of her pyjama bottoms. “There’s no way on earth I should agree to something like that.”**

**“Yes, there is.”**

**“Why?”**

**“Because you love me, too. As much as he does.” He stopping kissing to look up at her. “You know I love you. We get on together well, as a couple, as lovers, as parents, even as friends. We’re happy together. This is a good life for us, and the children too. Isn’t it?”**

**She ran a finger beside his chin. Her face was sad. “It’s spoiled,” she said. “How can love be complete if it’s divided?”**

**“I don’t know,” he said, in desperation. “All I know is that it feels complete. To me. Feels right. Feels like it ought to.”**

**“You’re mad,” she said, but she said it tenderly.**

**“Yeah. He thinks so, too. He’s known about you all along, and he copes. It’ll be easier for you, since we live together.”**

**“Easier, when I know you’re going to see him? Make love with him?”**

**“I wouldn’t have to lie any more,” he said bleakly.**

**He put his head down again and she stroked his hair. “Funny how it makes so much difference,” she said. “I would’ve said the sex wasn’t what counted, that it was just part of our relationship. A very good part, but not its essence. Now . . . the sense of betrayal is overwhelming. When I thought he was your friend, I didn’t mind your spending time with him. Didn’t matter what you did, or why, I thought it was a good thing for you to have a friend like that. Put sex into the equation, and it changes everything.”**

**“Doesn’t it, though,” he said, rubbing his face against her again.**

**“Uh-huh. And it’s even worse that --I thought maybe it was just because he was a man, you were experimenting sexually, trying it out. But it isn’t that, either. It’s that you well and truly love him. I should have known you wouldn’t be unfaithful casually or carelessly. But this hurts more.”**

**“Maybe,” said Doyle.**

**“That first time you brought him here,” she asked, “had you already made love to him?”**

**“No.” Cruel honesty compelled him to add, “But I wanted to. Hadn’t really faced it then, didn’t realise how bad it was. Thought I could resist it.”**

**“Have there been other men in your life?”**

**“No.”**

**“Is this the only person besides me you’ve been with since we got married?”**

**“Yes.”**

**“Are you still lying to me?”**

**“No.” He lifted her pyjama top, kissing her ribs. He reached up and started to play with her nipple. That always drove her mad. If she let him do that, she would let him do anything and everything he wanted.**

**She moved her hips, as if wanting more. “Ray,” she said, and moaned, “this isn’t fair.”**

**“Yes, it is. I want to show you I love you still. Want you as much as ever. More. Let me show you.” With his other hand, he was unfastening her buttons. He lifted her on top of him, rolling over, pulling off her pyjamas entirely. She was trembling with desire now, moaning because he was sucking on her nipple. She was as quickly aroused as Bodie: he loved that in both of them.**

**Then he kissed her lips, and said, “I love you, Cheryl.”**

**They made love with unusual intensity, knowing they had almost lost this, knowing they might still lose it forever.**

**The next day Sarah came into the kitchen while Doyle was eating his breakfast. Cheryl was upstairs with Kevin. Sarah sat down with her bran flakes and said, “Daddy? Why are you fighting with Mummy?”**

**“We had a disagreement,” said Doyle.**

**“She’s mad at you.”**

**‘I know.”**

**“Are you going to split up?”**

**“I don’t know,” he said. Even after last night, this remained true. “I hope not.”**

**“Why is she so mad at you?”**

**He wasn’t sure he could handle this. Explaining to Cheryl was bad enough. Explaining to Sarah was impossible. But she deserved something. Even while he thought this he was thinking about Bodie, trying to work out when he could make a chance to phone Bodie, or to see him again. To find out how Bodie was weathering this, to learn what he thought. To restore what they had.**

**And Sarah deserved his attention, so he forced himself not to think of Bodie, but to focus on the child, looking at him so intently. Of course she was concerned: this was her home, and she loved him as he loved her. He said, as honestly as he could, “I did something terrible, and I don’t know yet if your mother can forgive me.”**

**“Oh.”**

**“I hope she can. If we’re together, things can be mended.”**

**“Did you say you were sorry?”**

**“No, well, that’s it, you see,” said Doyle. “I couldn’t say I was sorry, because I’m not. I’m sorry I hurt her, but I can’t be sorry I did what I did. Even though it was terrible. So we’re trying to sort it out.”**

**Sarah nodded thoughtfully. “Remember the day I hit Ellen Crosby? The teacher told me to say I was sorry and I wouldn’t because I wasn’t and I had to stay at school to do lines. But I couldn’t lie about it.”**

**Doyle felt a twinge of guilt. He didn’t remember this incident from Sarah’s life. Was it that he had forgotten? Or that he had been busy, working as usual, or seeing Bodie, and not home to hear about the ramas of his daughter’s daily life? He felt a terrible pang, that she was so old already, growing up so fast, and he owed more to her than absences and half-explanations.**

**She came over to him and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Daddy. Whatever it is you did, I forgive you.”**

**He hugged her. “Thank you,” he said simply.**

**She went back to her bran flakes.**

**“So what happened to Ellen Crosby?”**

**“Nothing. I still hate her. We don’t talk.”**

**He smiled, remembering himself at seven, the loves and hates. He’d had his share of schoolyard scrapes at that age. “You’re very like me,” said.**

**She grinned. “Thank you, Daddy.”**

**When he came home that evening, he closed himself in the spare room that he had always meant to make into a studio, and got out his charcoal and his sketch-pad. Earlier pages had drawings of the children in various poses and at various ages, even Kevin as a baby in Cheryl’s arms, designed not so long ago. The drawing meant more to him than the photographs he had taken of the same subjects.**

**He found a clean page and started to draw.**

**Even though he was out of practice, it came easily. Bodie’s features were imprinted on his visual memory with indelible clarity; the little twist in his eyebrow, the thick long eyelashes, the sensuous mouth.**

**After a while he came to himself, because someone was banging on the door. It was Sarah, calling him to supper. “Daddy? Are you there? Daddy?”**

**He was losing his light, and he had a portrait of Bodie in his hands. Imperfect, sketchy, rough, it captured the beauty he saw.**

**It was then that he realised there were tears running down his face, and that they had been there for some time and showed no sign of stopping.**

**“I’ll be down in a minute,” he said.**

**“Okay,” said Sarah, with the same scepticism in her voice that her mother might have shown. He put the sketch-book back in his drawer and wiped his face with his hands. When he went down, it was the telephone he went to, rather than the dinner table. He dialled Bodie’s number but there was no answer.**

**Bodie. There was no one as important to him as Bodie. Why had he left Bodie’s place that night? Why had he let Cheryl take him away? Bodie had needed him, and he had put her needs --and his own needs --first. He hated himself for that, and for the fear that he might have lost Bodie, which he could not bear.**

**Composing himself, he joined the family for dinner.**

**\- - -**

****nine** **

**The sex with Cheryl had been spectacular, their pent-up tension and new awareness driving them to new heights. Afterwards, she had wept and slept, and he had lain awake, loving her and longing for Bodie.**

**When he managed to find a private moment to use his telephone at the station, there was no answer at Bodie’s flat. At the CI5 number, he was told that Bodie was not currently available, but he could call back. He gave his name as Ray Duncan, and wondered if Bodie would return his call.**

**He did not.**

**He thought Cooper looked at him strangely. He said, “What is it?”**

**“You’ve had a fight with Cheryl,” she said.**

**He raised his eyebrows. “Does it show?”**

**“Uh-huh. She’s been suspecting you were having an affair for a while now. Was it about that?”**

**“Yeah,” said Doyle.**

**“And you jump like a rabbit whenever the phone rings.”**

**“Do I?”**

**“Did she find something out? Is that what happened?”**

**“Don’t know what you mean,” Doyle said. Sheer prevarication, transparent and shameless, and they both knew it.**

**Cooper said, “You’re not the type to hurt the people you love.”**

**“Everybody is,” he said dryly. “I didn’t want it that way. Couldn’t prevent it. It’s like that, sometimes.”**

**“What did she learn?”**

**“She learned who it was I was having an affair with.”**

**“So there is someone,” said Cooper, but the way she said it made it clear she had already been sure.**

**“Yes.”**

**“It’s over?”**

**“I hope not,” said Doyle.**

**She said thoughtfully, “If Martin did that, I’d kill him.”**

**“Leave him?”**

**“Depends. Not if he ended the affair and was repentant.”**

**“I won’t,” said Doyle. “I’m not.”**

**She looked displeased. “That’s ruthless,” she said.**

**He shook his head. How to explain that he couldn’t live without either Cheryl or Bodie? No use looking at what he ought to do, whatever that may be. How he felt was how he felt: needing them both in  
his life. **

**He did not tell Cooper who it was that he loved, and she did not ask.**

**When the telephone rang right after supper, Sarah answered it. She said, “Wait a moment, please,” in her best grown-up voice, and then shouted, “Daaaaddy!”**

**“I’m here,” said Doyle, grinning at her as he took it. As always, he hoped it was Bodie. Bodie at last.**

**Instead a low, threatening voice said, “Are you ready to die, copper?” A pause. “Is she?”**

**The line went dead.**

**It sickened him, to get this call at home. At work, it was part of the job, almost a routine part. At home, it was something quite different.**

**Now he would have to tell Cheryl about this threat which targeted him and Sarah and, by implication, the rest of the family, so she would be careful, and would keep an eye on the children. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about.**

**Was this one more reason for her to leave him? He hoped not.**

**He told her in bed, holding her in his arms, telling her about the previous calls as well. “I think it’s an idle threat,” he said. “I don’t think they dare go after me here. I don’t think they’ll go after me at all, or you either. But you must be careful.”**

**She looked at him with hurt, frightened eyes, and he realised she was thinking of Bodie, not of him, and not of the threat. “I’ll be careful,” she said.**

**They made love tenderly. She did not cry. Afterwards they lay warmly in each other’s arms and she said, “You love too much, don’t you, Ray? Too intensely, too deeply. You’ve backed yourself into a corner.”**

**It sounded like the truth. He did not answer, but kissed her hair.**

**“Ray, can I ask you something about sex?”**

**“Mmm. Sure.”**

**“Is there something Bodie does that I could do? That you’d like, something I don’t do?”**

**“What do you mean?”**

**“I don’t know, just --well, you know. Because he’s a man.”**

**He thought about it. “You mean, penetration? You want to use a dildo on me?”**

**“If it’s something you’d like.”**

**“Sweetheart, that isn’t the point. I don’t love Bodie because he has different body parts.”**

**“That isn’t what I meant. I don’t want sex with me to be . . . incomplete. Insufficient. Tell me how, and I’ll make it better.”**

**“It’s already so good I can’t stand it.”**

**“I’m glad,” she said. “But you evaded my point. Do you let Bodie penetrate you?”**

**“Sometimes. It isn’t that I let him. You sure you want to talk about this?”**

**“I need to know.”**

**He said awkwardly, “Would you want me talking to Bodie about what I do with you?”**

**There was a long, thoughtful silence. After a while she said, “No.”**

**“Then maybe I shouldn’t talk about what I do with him. Let’s just say that we’ve done it a lot of ways, and that is one of them.”**

**“Oh.”**

**“That isn’t something I went looking for.”**

**“But did you like it?”**

**“Yeah,” he said, feeling himself respond to the memory. “Yeah, I liked it.”**

**She thought about that for so long he thought she’d fallen asleep. But after a while she said, “Have you talked to Bodie yet?”**

**“No.” Because he wanted to be honest now, he added, “I tried ringing him, but he wasn’t home. I think he’s on an op.”**

**“He lives dangerously, doesn’t he?”**

**“Yes.”**

**“Even more than you do.”**

**“Much more.”**

**“You need us both.”**

**“Yeah,” he said. “I need you both.”**

**“Poor Bodie,” she said. And then, “Poor Ray.”**

**It was an improvement over anger, and tears.**

**He wondered what reception he would get from Bodie.**

**Bodie did not call back on Friday, although Doyle left another message, this one from Roy Delmonte. In the end, he called six times, and left four messages. In one day. Christ! He was losing control.**

**At Dorncliffe Road, after dinner, he played the piano and they all sang silly songs until it was time for bed. Michael had a stomach ache, and couldn’t settle down.**

**It was late when Cheryl and Doyle were alone together, and in bed. She was tired from some difficulties at work, which she told him about while he listened, playing with her hand until she talked herself out, and then her breasts, which left her breathless. They made love gently, but the feelings were intense, and afterwards she said, “I think what happened has revitalized our love life.” She sounded amused.**

**“Did it need it so badly?” he asked.**

**“No. I think it’s that we were both so busy with life, work, the children, we weren’t making enough time for ourselves. Now we are focused on each other, because we were afraid of losing each other.”**

**“I don’t want to leave you,” he said again.**

**“I’m beginning to understand that. Ray . . . .”**

**“Yeah?”**

**“You’ve spoiled me over the past few days. Do you think, do you really think, you can keep us both satisfied?”**

**She was teasing now, which was a good sign. “I’m ready to try,” he said.**

**They snuggled. “You’re worried, aren’t you?” she said. “Are you still afraid I am leaving?”**

**“Aren’t you?”**

**“I don’t think so. Let’s see how it goes.”**

**“I love you,” he said.**

**“I know. But you’d guessed already that I couldn’t just leave you now, didn’t you? Since Wednesday. You know I . . . love you too much. Have to give it another go. Why do you look so worried? Is it that you haven’t seen Bodie for a while?”**

**“Six days,” he said, holding her tight.**

**“I wonder he can stand it.”**

**She meant it as teasing, but she felt him tense. She said, “You’re afraid, aren’t you? Of what? That I can’t stand to talk about him? Or --are you afraid he’s gone off you?”**

**“I’m afraid he’s had enough,” said Doyle. “Maybe this is it, and you and I have had all this agonizing for nothing. Maybe he’s not on an op, maybe he just doesn’t want to see me or speak to me.”**

**“Would he do that?”**

**“He might. If he was angry enough. Hurt enough.”**

**“If he thought you’d chosen me over him?”**

**“If he thought that.”**

**“Do you think he does?”**

**“How do I know? How would he know? I told him --he knows I wouldn’t just leave him, drop him without a word, but --”**

**They both let the thought drop, wordlessly. She kissed his neck.**

**“I want to see him,” said Doyle.**

**“I know.”**

**“Tomorrow. I want to see him tomorrow. I’m not asking permission, but . . . I hope it’s all right with you.”**

**“No,” she said. “It isn’t all right. But I’m adjusting to the idea. Go if you must.”**

**He fell asleep with a new certainty and a new hope.**

**As luck would have it, he was awakened early by a call to a murder. It was a long, busy day, with too much to do. He spared a moment to ring Bodie, with no results.**

**So it was nearly nine that evening before he drove to Bodie’s flat in Chelsea. He found a parking space on the road, and looked at the windows. There was a light. He locked the car, and went up to the door.**

**He had a key. He didn’t use it. He rang.**

**After enough time to imply that Bodie wasn’t hurrying, the intercom spoke. “Yeah?”**

**“It’s me,” said Doyle.**

**There was a pause. Bloody hell, thought Doyle, he has a girl.**

**Bodie didn’t reply, but the door buzzed open.**

**Doyle skipped the lift, and ran up the stairs. He knocked, hard, on Bodie’s door.**

**Through the door, he heard Bodie say, “I hear you, I hear you.” He stopped pounding on the brown painted wood. Bodie pulled the door open and would have spoken, but could not because Doyle was holding him close and was kissing his mouth, slamming the door shut behind him, overpowering him physically with sheer momentum.**

**Bodie was wearing a dark blue shirt and black trousers. Doyle put his hands under the shirt and rubbed the skin of his back, relishing its feel, warm and smooth and hard. He ran his hands over Bodie’s arse, outside the trousers, trying to reach in, but foiled by their tightness. He could feel Bodie’s heart pounding against his, or was it just that his own was pounding in triple time? He unfastened Bodie’s belt, kissing his face and neck.**

**In that one moment when the door had opened, he had seen the bleakness and the surprise on Bodie’s face. Bodie had truly thought he was not coming back, had thought he had chosen Cheryl above him, had thought that was the end. Doyle had told him it wasn’t, but how could he trust words?**

**Perhaps he would trust touch, feel the sincerity in every caress.**

**The feelings flickered over his face like an old cinematograph played slowly; the love, the fear, the pain, the hope, the desire, the overwhelming relief. What could he say to this? Nothing. He touched Bodie’s face with a gentle hand.**

**“Doyle,” said Bodie, making an attempt to sound lighthearted, “after a week of silence, I get a steamroller in my hands. What happened?”**

**“Need you,” said Doyle. “Take me to bed.”**

**Bodie hesitated.**

**“Please!”**

**Bodie let him strip off his shirt and toss it aside, pull down his trousers and drawers. “Must be demonic possession,” he theorized. “Can’t think of anything else that’d account for it.” His breath was coming fast now, too.**

**“Haven’t seen you for a week,” said Doyle, dropping to a knee to take Bodie’s cock in his mouth. It responded gratifyingly. He let it go and put his arms around Bodie’s hips, caressing his buttocks, inhaling the lovely scent of his skin. “Let’s go to bed now.” He kissed Bodie’s navel, letting his hands wander. “I love you.”**

**“Do you? Still?” asked Bodie softly.**

**“More than ever.”**

**Bodie pulled him up, kissing his lips. “Prove it.”**

**They would have moved to the bedroom then and there, but Bodie almost tripped on his lowered trousers. So, laughing, they tussled over the clothing --Bodie trying to pull the trousers up, Doyle trying to pull them off --and in the end fell into bed like boys, laughing and scuffling. The emptiness Doyle had seen in Bodie’s eyes had gone. Instead there was a warmth that ignited.**

**By the time they were in the bed, Bodie’s clothes were everywhere. Then Bodie started to undress Doyle slowly, gently, deliberately, teasing with fingers and lips as he went, taking his time, cherishing each touch and each sound, as he made Doyle gasp and whimper. “Fuck me,” said Doyle. “Fuck me long and hard and smooth and slow. Want you to do it to me all night. Don’t ever want to stop.”**

**“Eh?” Bodie stopped, lips against his wrist. “All night?”**

**“Don’t stop,” groaned Doyle.**

**Bodie resumed the exploration of hand and arm with his lips. His other hand was slowly unzipping Doyle’s fly, firm fingers advancing and retreating. “Was that ‘stop’?” he murmured.**

**“No, it was . . . no. Oh, Bodie.” He kissed his lips again. “Missed you so much.”**

**“It was a hell of a week,” agreed Bodie.**

**Impatient with Bodie’s finger-games, Doyle pulled off the rest of his clothes, and, batting Bodie’s hands away, moved over him, one knee on each side so his cock brushed Bodie’s. Bodie gasped and arched, and he bent to force a kiss on the parted lips. “Do me,” Doyle begged. “Fuck me till we collapse. Want you to do it now, now, now . . . .”**

**Bodie obligingly flipped him over, face down on the bed, letting his fingers play with his arse as he reached for the lubricant, squirting it onto his fingers and onto Doyle’s skin, into his waiting body. Doyle was making soft, desperate noises that made one hand tremble as he pressed the middle finger of the other inside the receptive arsehole, feeling the constriction of the muscle and the heat of the arousal and the contagious extremity of Doyle’s desire. He removed his finger, and Doyle groaned loudly. “Come back,”  
Doyle said, reaching behind to spread his buttocks. “Bodie.” The way he said his name was a caress in itself. **

**Bodie put his cock gently against the eager ring of muscle. He played with Doyle’s lower back with one hand, touching it with firm, sweeping motions. With the other, he played with Doyle’s balls, relishing the texture and the touch. Doyle moaned loudly and he didn’t know if it was that, or the touch of his cockhead against his anus, moving back and forth but not inside, bringing nerve-ends to life, making Doyle’s cries louder still. “I could do this all night if you like it,” he said. “Do you like it?”**

**“Yes --but --want you inside.” Doyle could hardly speak coherently.**

**“Now?”**

**“No, tomorrow. Yes, now!”**

**“You sure of that?”**

**“Damn you, Bodie!” Doyle was caught laughing and groaning at the same time, making a mess of both sounds.**

**Bodie leaned down so that his body was on top of Doyle’s, touching him length for length, his weight on his arms on either side of Doyle’s chest. “Keep your hands on the bed beside you. You want me inside you?”**

**“Yes.”**

**“Tell me you love me. Tell me you’re mine.”**

**“I love you. I’m yours always. Always, always . . . .”**

**He got his reward. Bodie pressed on his arsehole, feeling the muscle spread for him, feeling the entry engulf him as sweetly as anything he had ever known. Doyle cried out, loudly. He would have moved, but Bodie said sharply, “No! Be still,” because he wanted this to last, to build inside Doyle a climax he would remember for months if not years. Doyle, impatient as always, wouldn’t thank him now, but he’d like it afterwards.**

**As plans go, it was a good one. The reality was that Doyle’s moans and motions were making Bodie rapidly lose control not only of his physiological responses but of his strategy, intentions and every trace of coherent thought. Doyle in his arms was a powerhouse of banked sexual energy, radiant arousal so palpable that Bodie expected the bed to rise off the floor.**

**In an attempt to regain control, Bodie started to talk. “Thought I’d lost you,” he said. “Thought you weren’t coming back. Kept remembering you, how lovely you are, how you stand, how your jeans fit so tight and beautiful, how you smile when you notice me looking. Kept remembering those noises you make, like that, and the way you eat cheese sandwiches without butter and the way you drink a pint as if it were ambrosia. You’re the sexiest man on earth, you know that, Doyle?”**

**“Second most sexy,” corrected Doyle, on an escalation of gasps. He tried to move again, but Bodie used his body weight stop him and hold him motionless.**

**“And I’m so lost in you I can’t find myself sometimes. Don’t want to lose that, don’t want to lose what I feel for you. I was afraid for a while I wouldn’t be able to remember what your skin felt like, what fucking you had felt like, what it feels like when you’re right inside me and I come from deep inside myself, going off like an atom bomb, but slowly and like the suspension of time. You ever feel that, Doyle?”**

**Doyle grunted, and did his best to wiggle. Bodie moved in and out of him, giving him a little mercy, kissing the back of his neck. Doyle tried to move his hands to his cock, but Bodie didn’t give him leverage. “Don’t move. You’ll like what happens.”**

**“Driving me mad, that’s what you’re trying to do,” muttered Doyle.**

**“No, you like it.” Bodie reached down to squeeze his balls again. “You like this, don’t you?”**

**“Yeah.”**

**“I can keep you going for a long time. It just gets better, Doyle. It’ll go on getting better and better. You were already hot when you got here, let’s see what levels I can take you to.” He brushed his ips over Doyle’s back, pulling himself slowly until he was almost out, pushing himself even more slowly back in. “Feels so good, love. Never knew anything like your body. Never want to stop touching it, just to make sure it’s real.” He licked Doyle’s ear and sucked gently on the earlobe. “Tasting it. Sucking it.  
Fucking you. That’s what shows me life’s worth living.” **

**“I’m dying,” said Doyle, moving against him. But he left his hands motionless on the bed. Bodie shifted his weight to one arm. He used the other hand to cover Doyle’s, squeezing it, entwining fingers among fingers on the clear clean sheet. Then he moved the hand caressingly up his arm, reached under to his chest, and tweaked a hard nipple. Doyle jerked, moaned, and muttered. Bodie smiled into his hair, running his lips over the back of Doyle’s neck, savouring the flavour of Doyle’s skin, a flavour so uniquely  
his. He let his fingers do a dance around and over the nipple, touching firmly, then lightly. A spasm ran through Doyle, and Bodie let it run its course, gritting his teeth to resist the urge to climax. Just a little longer . . . . A little longer, and Doyle would be over the edge. Meanwhile he was helpless and shuddering with pleasure, his breath coming in long gasps. **

**Bodie readjusted his weight on both hands, getting leverage to thrust, moving faster. He was sweating, his body trembling with the effort. Getting his second wind. Getting a thrill like none other, seeing Doyle like this, making Doyle like this. His skin tingled wherever it touched Doyle’s. Then he was lost in a cocoon of sensuality without focus or form. Doyle started to climax, his body pushing up towards Bodie’s as he let out a long, low cry. Bodie put his arms around him, holding him tight, using the strength of his body to lift Doyle up from the bed as Doyle pushed himself back with his arms, so Bodie could use his hands to hold his cock and rub the warm cum over it, over his chest, around the erect nipples, through the auburn pubic hair.**

**Doyle, twisting his head around, reached back for Bodie’s head, and pulled it closer to him, and kissed him on the mouth.**

**Bodie came then, losing the tension-taut control that he had so carefully nurtured. He came apart in a thousand fractured fragments, a kaleidoscope of pleasure, unable to speak or think, only to feel the lovely body held in his arms and wrapped tight around his cock.**

**He came down from a very high height. He was lying beside Doyle now, wrapped warmly in Doyle’s arms, and Doyle was nuzzling his chest.**

**He made a low sound of pleasure, and ran his hands through Doyle’s wild hair.**

**“All right, maestro,” said Doyle, his voice a low rumble of satiation, “that was sheer showing off. You training for the Olympic sex team or something?”**

**Unable to think of a clever answer, or anything coherent at all, Bodie yawned. He tweaked a curl and said softly, “Doyle.”**

**“What?”**

**“Nothing. Just. . . Doyle.”**

**Smiling, Doyle resumed the oral exploration of his chest. Bodie could feel the warm breath, the wet tongue, the soft lips, the trace of stubble on cheek and chin. He floated a little, half dozing, half waiting for Doyle to get up and leave to go home. But Doyle did not get up, and did not stop his exploration of Bodie’s body.**

**Bodie said again, “Doyle?”**

**“Mmm?”**

**“Shouldn’t you be leaving?”**

**Doyle raised his head. “What, you trying to kick me out already? And here I was, trying to repay a few favours you just did me. Sensuously speaking.”**

**“If you’re expecting a repeat, you’ll have to wait a few minutes.”**

**“I can stand it.”**

**“Doyle?”**

**“Don’t fuss. I’m not going home tonight. Told you I’d stay all night.”**

**“What?”**

**Doyle leaned on one elbow, letting his fingertips make drawings on Bodie’s chest. “Told Cheryl I was spending the whole night here. She doesn’t expect me till tomorrow.”**

**“She accepted that?”**

**“Didn’t give her any choice, did I?”**

**Bodie was searching his face. “I don’t understand.”**

**Doyle took his hand, and held it. “Listen to me carefully. I love you. I said I wasn’t willing to give you up. Not for her, not for anyone. If she doesn’t want me on those terms, then I’m not ready to offer negotiation.”**

**“Jesus!” said Bodie.**

**“Can’t do without you,” said Doyle. He closed his eyes, and leaned his face against Bodie’s chest. “Only a week without you, and I couldn’t stand it. Need you, Bodie. Need you as part of my life.”**

**“You’re crazy,” said Bodie, holding him. “You don’t compromise, do you?”**

**“Sometimes I can’t,” said Doyle. “Sometimes there’s no choice. This is my choice. To be with you.”**

**“You mean that?” said Bodie.**

**“Some day you might believe it. You thought I was gone, didn’t you?”**

**“What else could I think?”**

**“Love you,” said Doyle. “Love you forever. Won’t leave you. Mustn’t lose you.”**

**Bodie’s eyes held infinite tenderness. Doyle kissed his mouth lightly and said, “How many minutes till the repeat performance, did you say?”**

**Bodie smiled. “Told you you’d like it.”**

**“Never felt anything like it,” said Doyle. “And before you go all smug, let me tell you it wasn’t the skill that did it. It was the love.”**

**“Works both ways,” said Bodie.**

**“Yeah.” Doyle touched his lips. “Luckiest thing I ever did, meeting you. I’ll spend my life showing you.”**

**Bodie couldn’t stop himself from saying it. “And Cheryl?”**

**“Her too.” Seeing the look in Bodie’s eyes, he clutched his hand. “It’ll work out,” he said. “It will. Trust me, Bodie. I’ll make it work.”**

**Bodie looked at Doyle with love and perfect acceptance. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “All I want is you in my arms. Now and always.”**

**“You have me,” said Doyle.**

**Then Bodie was busy on a case, after which he had to stay in hospital overnight to ensure he had no internal injuries. Doyle came to see him, on his way home. “Brought you humbugs,” he said. “It’s what I always bring people in hospital.”**

**“Thanks,” said Bodie. “The traditional CI5 present is a bottle of the very best single malt.”**

**Doyle whistled. “Make a lot of money, then, do you?”**

**“It isn’t our savings, it’s from confiscated drug money. Tomorrow,” said Bodie. “Can I see you tomorrow? I’ll be at home.”**

**“Can’t,” said Doyle. “Promised Cheryl I’d go to the school with her. Teacher’s meeting. And on Thursday her parents are coming over. But Friday is all right.”**

**“I can wait,” said Bodie, but his eyes were bleak.**

**It didn’t work out on Friday. Bodie was on stand-by. Something came up and he had to work until Saturday evening. After a long and much-needed sleep, he came to Doyle’s place Sunday.**

**Doyle and Cheryl were working on his motorcycle, while Kevin played with blocks and Michael was making speeding noises on his tricycle. “Remember how we used to take off for the weekend,” Cheryl said. “Sunlight and speed? That was fun.”**

**“Sounds it,” said Bodie. He leaned against the wall, watching them.**

**“You into this sort of thing?” Doyle nodded at the half-dismantled motorcycle.**

**“Naw. Don’t like to get my hands dirty.”**

**“There’s nothing like the feel of a perfect machine,” said Doyle.**

**Cheryl smiled, then said quickly, “No, honey, don’t do that,” as Kevin threw a block. Bodie picked him up, waving him in the air, to Kevin’s screaming delight.**

**Watching them, Doyle wiped his nose, leaving a smear of grease across his cheek.**

**“Stay for dinner?” said Cheryl to Bodie.**

**“Fine,” he said. “Thank you.” He didn’t know if she genuinely wanted him; he suspected not. But he guessed that she thought Doyle wanted the invitation to be issued, and would say it himself, if she didn’t. Thus she saved face.**

**Over dinner, Michael stayed close to Bodie, listening to his every word, saying little. Sarah chattered more than usual. Kevin threw his spoon against the wall until he got tired of it, which was considerably later than everyone else got fed up with picking it up.**

**Later, Bodie helped Cheryl with the washing up while Doyle stayed with the children in the sitting room. She said, “Why’d you come over today, Bodie?”**

**“Wanted to see him. It’s been days,” he said.**

**She looked thoughtful. “I’m glad you don’t feel you have to stay away. I noticed that when you are here, you never touch him.”**

**“Never touch him when anyone is around,” he said. “It isn’t just here, it’s anywhere.”**

**“And when you’re alone?”**

**“Can’t keep my hands off him.”**

**She dropped her eyes. Her expression, when she glanced up again, was mischievous. Whatever the cost, she was keeping herself under control. “I’m like that too,” she said.**

**He smiled. “We have a lot in common.”**

**She told him about what had been happening with the family. Kevin was nervous, needed more attention than usual. Michael was giving temper tantrums in the morning, not wanting to go to school. (“Don’t blame him,” said Bodie, who had never liked school himself.) Sarah was trying to act like a grown-up, and her school-work was slipping behind. She said she hated maths. She had never hated maths before.**

**They rejoined the others in the sitting room, and played charades, with Kevin demonstrating his own version of the game by tripping the others at every opportunity. Doyle’s phrase was Gone With the Wind. Bodie had Last of the Mohicans, which he managed to make both noisy and funny. Sarah did The Sound of Music and Cheryl was Pinocchio. Michael, last but not least, had Beauty and the Beast.**

**Cheryl soon took Kevin to bed, and the others carried on amidst much laughter until first Michael and then Sarah had to stop.**

**“I’d better be going, too,” said Bodie. He got up, heading towards the door.**

**There was a chorus of protest, and those who were on their way to bed (Michael fresh out of the bath, Sarah yet to get there) had to hug him good-night and say good-bye.**

**Cheryl was taking them back upstairs. Doyle said, “Not so fast, mate.”**

**There was a pause, while he waited for the family to go out of sight.**

**“Don’t,” said Bodie, but it was too late. Doyle kissed him hard, on the mouth.**

**“Missed you,” he said. He ran his hand over Bodie’s cheek.**

**Bodie gave him a long look. He turned to the door.**

**“Tomorrow,” said Doyle, in the face of Bodie’s silence. “Can I come and see you tomorrow?”**

**“Yeah,” said Bodie. “Tomorrow.”**

**But the plan for tomorrow didn’t happen. Doyle arrived at Bodie’s flat on Cheyne Row after work, and found Bodie gone, with a note and a pile of humbugs on the kitchen table. The note said, “Had to work. Call me. B.”**

**Doyle ate a humbug, and hung about for a bit. He rather enjoyed being in Bodie’s flat, poking around purposelessly, getting the feel of the place without the overwhelming presence of Bodie to distract him. He thumbed a few books; one on gun markings, one on East German politics and policies, one on seventeenth-century poetry. Eclectic tastes, his Bodie. Or was it the result of random gifts, unwanted and unread? The music was likewise varied: some early Beatles, some more recent rock’n’roll, some Baroque,  
some American jazz, some oriental music in a cover with Chinese writing on it. He picked a recording at random; it was moody, sensuous blues. **

**He got a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator, changed his mind, and put it back.**

**Even without Bodie here, the flat remained full of his presence.**

**He looked at the carefully mounted guns, of which Bodie was quietly proud. He thought of Bodie, shooting at the farm. He thought about what had happened afterwards.**

**Restless, rootless, aroused by an anticipation that would not now be met, Doyle went into the bedroom and threw himself onto the bed, unzippering his jeans. Even without Bodie --it meant something here, in the dim light of an untenanted room, a neatly made bed, a place Bodie had been, where he had slept last night, where Doyle should be beside him.**

**He thought about Bodie touching him. It was driving him mad as he let it happen in his imagination, touching himself and thinking about Bodie’s touch, which was like nothing else he had ever felt. He climaxed neatly, quickly and satisfactorily, and lay there, wishing for Bodie’s presence.**

**After a while, he got up and went into the bathroom. After he washed, he left the flat, locking it behind him.**

**When he got home, Cheryl was asleep, but she woke as he got into bed. “You’re home,” she said.**

**“Uh-huh.” He took her in his arms, nuzzled her hair.**

**She snuggled against him, and fell asleep again.**

**The next day, Bodie rang him at work. “We on for tonight?”**

**“Can’t. I’m watching the kids. Promised Cheryl.”**

**There was a dark silence.**

**“Promised her a long time ago. She’s going to a lecture.”**

**“Yeah,” said Bodie. “I understand.”**

**“You can come over if you like. Help me babysit.”**

**“Wasn’t what I had in mind.”**

**“Tomorrow? Shall we meet tomorrow, then?”**

**“Yeah, tomorrow.” But he said it without hope.**

**He realised late that evening that he could not go on. He had been willing to pay any price, but he could not sustain it. The pain had become too great.**

**\- - -**

**The next day, Doyle was at the flat early, waiting. He let himself in as he had two days before, and cut some cheese onto crackers, and munched them while he listened to the same sultry music as on Tuesday. He had never taken the record off the turntable, but had simply left it sitting here, waiting for his return, the jacket propped against the wall. He wondered if Bodie had noticed.**

**He finished off the crackers, and then remembered that he had intended to save half for Bodie. He went back to the kitchen and cut some more cheese.**

**He heard the door open, and went to the front room, leaning in the doorway with an opened bottle of beer in his hand. His breath caught at the sight of Bodie --looking gorgeous, and in his most masculine mode.**

**Whatever the job had been, it had been a physically draining one. He could tell that by Bodie’s stance. He could see the rip in the camouflage jacket and tight black T-shirt, and could see the blood on his sleeve, which didn’t seem to be from any damage to himself.**

**“Hi,” said Doyle. He held up the bottle. “Want some beer?”**

**“Sure,” said Bodie. He took it, letting his fingers touch Doyle’s for a moment. He drank from the bottle, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Thanks, mate. I needed that.”**

**Doyle reached to embrace him, but he moved aside. “Don’t,” said Bodie. He pushed past Doyle and went into the kitchen, putting his bottle on the counter.**

**“What?” said Doyle. He turned around, staring at Bodie in incomprehension. “Don’t?”**

**Bodie didn’t answer.**

**“Why?”**

**“We have to stop,” said Bodie.**

**“Stop loving each other? Why?”**

**“Because I can’t take it any more.” Bodie looked at him, all the strain and fatigue showing. “I think of you in the field, on the job. It distracts me. When I can’t see you . . . it’s like the end of the world, and hell, I can’t expect to see you more than one night in twelve, can I?” His hand shook and he turned it into a fist to still it. “I can’t stand it, Ray. It’s getting worse, not better.”**

**“We can do better than that,” said Doyle, his mouth dry. “Better than one night in twelve. We can do a lot better than that.”**

**“Haven’t been, have we? Oh, sometimes. Not enough. It isn’t as if I can really fit into your life. At your house, I’m on Cheryl’s territory. Can’t have you live here. Can’t have you half the time, you have obligations with them. That’s as it should be, but what’s left for me? Not much. Not enough.”**

**“All my love,” said Doyle.**

**“Except what you give to Cheryl and the children. I don’t begrudge them, but the times you’re with them --can’t bear to be without you.”**

**“And breaking up would make being without me easier?”**

**“I’d have no expectations then.”**

**Doyle turned back towards the sitting room. “Why do all these sorts of conversations happen in kitchens?” he said nonsensically, and walked toward the window of the other room. He needed air. He pushed it open, smelled the acrid traffic of London.**

**Behind him, Bodie said, “Knew this wouldn’t be easy.”**

**“I love you.”**

**“I know,” Bodie whispered.**

**Doyle turned around. “Listen, we can talk about this. We can find a way.”**

**“All right. What?” Bodie sat on the chesterfield. They had made love there, across the seat, across the back, across the arms. More than once.**

**Doyle found it hard to make his tongue work. The sexy music was making a fog of his brain, but he didn’t think to turn it off. “What will you accept?”**

**“Leave Cheryl. Come here. Live with me.”**

**“Can’t.”**

**Bodie didn’t answer.**

**“I can’t . . . I’d lose the children, my job, I’d lose, oh hell, I’d lose everything.”**

**“Everything but me,” agreed Bodie.**

**“You’re asking me to choose,” said Doyle. “Just like she did, only she backed off. You’re asking me to choose. Me or her, you’re saying.”**

**“That’s about it.”**

**Fury overcame Doyle. He shouted, “You can’t make me choose!”**

**Bodie didn’t answer.**

**“Please,” said Doyle, going from anger to panic. “Don’t, please don’t. I love you. I need you. I can’t do without you, Bodie.”**

**“Why not? You did before.”**

**“I can’t,” repeated Doyle. He felt bereft, torn apart.**

**Bodie was doing what he had to do. It hurt him, too. But not . . . not like this.**

**Doyle simply repeated, “Can’t.”**

**Did Bodie know the implications, know what this was doing to him?**

**No, and he must never know. Bodie was doing this because the strain of the situation was too much for him. He could see that. He knew how little Bodie wanted to leave him, and could measure by that the extremity of his need. Doyle had no right to hold him to the unbearable, even if he could. And if this was unbearable for Bodie --he could understand that. He couldn’t imagine being in Bodie’s place, having to watch Bodie leave his bed time and again to go back to a wife.**

**The days when they could not see each other had been bad for him, but worse for Bodie. Bodie had received so little in his life of love and warmth and belonging. The half-measure he had --no wonder he looked away now, pained.**

**Doyle could not imagine, for himself, now, a life without Bodie. Life without Bodie was no life at all.**

**He turned, and stumbled towards the door. He could not see it. He needed to escape before Bodie guessed what was happening to him.**

**“Bye,” he muttered, and felt Bodie’s hands on him, turning him, making his face visible.**

**“Oh, Christ, Ray,” said Bodie.**

**Doyle whispered, “Don’t leave me,” and stumbled again, this time against Bodie’s body. He let himself fall, feeling the floor under his knees, his face against Bodie’s chest. Bodie touched his shoulders. “Ray?”**

**“Please.”**

**Bodie saw then what Doyle had tried to hide, that he could not and would not live without Bodie.**

**A rush of feeling ran over him. Beside Doyle’s pain, his had been nothing. Given Doyle’s pain, he wanted nothing but to heal him, to hold him, to comfort him with the only gifts he could give, of love and constancy.**

**Bodie pulled him up and kissed him, warmly. He felt the touch of the lips and the comfort they offered. He traced the lips with his tongue, moving against them ever so gently with the motion of his swaying body, so their bodies touched and backed off, touched again. Bodie wrapped his arms around him, holding him.**

**“Stay with me,” Doyle whispered. His voice was trembling. He clutched at Bodie’s arms, as if believing he might disappear at any moment.**

**“Can’t leave you,” said Bodie. “Thought I could, but I can’t. I’ll stay. I’ll always stay. Love you too much to ever leave you.”**

**Doyle started kissing Bodie’s face, feeling the wetness on his transferred to Bodie’s cheeks. Bodie needed a wash, a shave. He liked the feel of the stubble, the taste of the sweat. “Fuck me,” he said. “Please. Need you.”**

**“Anything,” said Bodie.**

**That was Thursday. Friday was the Christmas play at Sarah’s school. Sarah played an angel, and the other children sang “Hark the herald angels sing,” while Sarah and her friend Agnes sang, “Glory to the new-born king.” To the proud eyes of her parents, Sarah was the star of the show, in her long white gown and tinsel halo.**

**Later, walking home with the family as a group, Doyle said, “Let’s go to the pantomime this year.”**

**“Oh, yes!” said Sarah. “That would be splendid.” She skipped a few steps, clutching her mother’s hand.**

**“Never been to panto,” said Michael, his eyes shining, holding Cheryl’s other hand. He had started to suck his thumb again.**

**“Do you want to bring Bodie too?” asked Cheryl.**

**“Oh, yes!” said Sarah, not minding that the question had not been addressed to her.**

**“Yes,” said Doyle, in a voice suddenly unreliable. He swallowed, and said more normally, “I’d like that.”**

**“Ask him, then,” said Cheryl.**

****ten** **

**“Panto?” said Bodie on the phone. “Are you out of your mind, mate?”**

**“You’d like it,” said Doyle. And after a pause he added, “Wouldn’t you?”**

**“Dunno,” said Bodie. “When is it? What is it?”**

**“Sunday evening. The Fairy Prince.”**

**“Are you having me on?”**

**“The honest truth. I swear, Bodie.” Bodie started to laugh, and Doyle knew he’d won this round. “C’mon. Michael wants you there.”**

**“He’s yours, not mine,” said Bodie.**

**“I know. But he likes you. I want you there too. Bodie?”**

**“I suppose,” said Bodie, with resignation, “that you can talk me into anything. All right. I’ll wear my dance tights.”**

**Doyle laughed and rang off.**

**But they never made it to the panto.**

**Bodie came by on Saturday afternoon, without calling ahead, but he had expected Doyle to be home. And Doyle had been home, but had gone at Cheryl’s request to pick up some Christmas decorations, and should be home soon.**

**Sarah opened the door to Bodie, and was glad to see him. “Mummy’s in the potting shed,” she said. “Come and see.”**

**Bodie came with her through the garden where he and Doyle had worked in the summer, and they found Cheryl doing things with poinsettia plants and pots of earth, waving her trowel like a weapon. She had a kerchief over her head, and oversized gloves on her hands. “Ray should be back soon,” she said. “My parents have taken Kevin and Michael to the park, so I was hoping I could get some work done here. There always seems to be so much to do before Christmas.” She smiled. “At least he has the day off.  
Last year, he worked right up till Christmas and practically through the whole holiday.” **

**“Thought for a bit the Finlay case would be like that,” said Bodie.**

**“The murdered linguist?”**

**“We discovered he was working with the KGB.”**

**“Interesting,” said Cheryl. “Then who was threatening Ray?”**

**“Threatening him?” asked Bodie.**

**Cheryl explained about the phone calls. “That one case has been worse than any I can remember,” she said fretfully. “It didn’t wrap itself up neatly with some villain in prison confessing. Oh, no. Instead we have international spies and CI5 involvement.” Including, thought Bodie, the fact that he had met Doyle because of it. She did not say that, and neither did he.**

**“That’s what CI5 is for,” said Bodie. “Finding the interesting connections. Seems Finlay had some international friends with expensive gifts for him. Probably he was selling the same secrets to both the Russians and organised crime. And the secrets involved weaponry so sophisticated it can’t be reproduced without Finlay’s notes.”**

**“Fancy that.”**

**“Wipps was buying information from Finlay, it seems, but wasn’t happy when the KGB bought the same material. So Wipps turned the tables, double-crossed Finlay, and had him killed. This made Wipps the sole owner of some very interesting information that numerous parties would like to have, including a Russian named --”**

**Sarah said, “Mummy?” She appeared in the doorway of the shed. “There’s a strange man here to see you.”**

**Then the shooting started, without warning.**

**“Down!” said Bodie. He grabbed Sarah and pushed her into the shelter of the wall. Sarah tucked herself into her mother’s arms as Cheryl looked up through the door at the intruder facing Bodie. Since the shots had not connected, it seemed likely that they had been intended to frighten rather than to kill.**

**Four men had come into the garden, women’s tights pulled over their faces. The first one had the legs hanging behind him like rabbit ears. The effect was not ludicrous, because the shotgun in his arms was pointed at Bodie and Cheryl and Sarah. Bodie raised his arms and stepped forward, blocking the doorway of the shed, hoping to distract them from the woman and child. He did his best to look harmless.**

**“Doyle?” said rabbit-ears, to Bodie.**

**“Yeah, I’m Doyle,” lied Bodie, stopping once he was sure he was blocking Doyle’s family from the path of any possible gunfire. “What of it?”**

**The first man moved quickly. He hit Bodie, hard, over the head with the butt of the gun. Bodie did not resist. He fell. Cheryl screamed before she could stop herself.**

**The armed men took Bodie away between them, carrying him back around the house to their car. Cheryl and Sarah could hear the sound of the car doors, the motor as it moved away. It was over as fast as it had begun.**

**“Mummy?” said Sarah.**

**“They’ve gone, darling,” said Cheryl. “Quick, we have to get to the phone.”**

**“To call Daddy,” agreed the little girl, running.**

**“To get the police,” said Cheryl.**

**Doyle arrived home a few minutes later. Cheryl had called Cooper at the station, and had spoken to Brace. She was now fighting tears, with one arm around Sarah.**

**In the doorway, Doyle said, “What happened?”**

**“Bodie,” she said. “They took Bodie.”**

**“Who?”**

**She went into his arms, holding him. Doyle: alive. They had come after Doyle, and had taken Bodie. She realised she had to explain, but her words were coming out in a jumble. She told him about the men, the potting shed, the gunshots.**

**Doyle listened, stroking her hair and Sarah’s. “Bodie,” he said. “They took him instead of me.”**

**“Thank God,” said Cheryl, with the absurd desire to cry. She hugged Sarah again.**

**Sergeant Cooper arrived with the local constabulary. They took Cheryl’s statement. Sarah earnestly and conscientiously told her eyewitness testimony to a policewoman about the men whose faces she couldn’t see, and their guns. “I was under the shelf in the potting shed,” she said. “I saw it all.”**

**“He told them he was Doyle,” Cheryl explained to the man taking notes. “My husband, Inspector Doyle. They believed it. They took him. It was Doyle they wanted.”**

**“And why would he do that, ma’am?” asked the perplexed constable.**

**“To save me. To save Sarah. To save my husband.”**

**“A CI5 hero?” There was no derision in his tone, but it must have been in his thought. Cheryl said firmly, “Yes.”**

**“And why was he here?” asked the man, his pencil moving efficiently in the notepad.**

**“He was visiting us. He is my husband’s friend.” She hoped that he didn’t notice the way her voice caught before the word friend. “He came here to visit, maybe to talk about the case.”**

**The man looked up sharply. “This is a CI5 case, then?”**

**“No,” said Doyle. “It has to do with me. I arrested an illegal arms dealer . . . Cowley thinks there’s a connection with the Soviets.”**

**“Sounds as if Wipps has friends,” said Cooper.**

**“The rough kind,” agreed Doyle. “I didn’t take their telephone threats too seriously. Reckoned it was bluster. Didn’t expect they’d come here. Never anticipated they’d really have the brass for that. Didn’t think they’d go after . . . .”**

**Cheryl put her arms around him. “Bodie. They got Bodie.”**

**Doyle cursed, and held her tight.**

**“He was ready to die for you,” said Cheryl. “He let them take him, rather than you.”**

**“I know,” said Doyle. He kissed her forehead. “What a stupid berk.”**

**She smiled at him, through tears. “He’s very brave,” she said. More softly still, she added, “And he loves you.”**

**“I know,” said Doyle.**

**“It was very exciting,” said Sarah, to her father. “The man had a gun and a mask and everything. I was very frightened.” Her tone belied the statement.**

**“You look pretty collected now,” said Doyle, smoothing her hair off her face.**

**“Well, it’s all over, isn’t it? Will Bodie be all right?”**

**“Yes, of course,” said Doyle. “I’m going to go and get him.”**

**“I knew you would,” said Sarah.**

**Cheryl said nothing at all.**

**Then Superintendent Brace arrived.**

**Impatience and fury drove Doyle upstairs in his house, away from Brace’s inane ideas and the well-meaning uselessness of the constables. CI5 would be of more use, though Doyle was well aware that Cowley’s feelings towards him were ambivalent at best, and he wasn’t sure how ready Cowley would be to co-operate with a Met investigation. He was more likely to override it. Well, that was his prerogative, of course. Bodie was his operative. If he tried to cut Doyle out of the matter, Doyle had no intention of letting him. It would take more than Major Cowley to stop him.**

**He could spare no more than moments to pause in his study. Time was against him, and against Bodie. They had kidnapped Bodie forty minutes ago. He sat, trying to think, trying to put together pieces of the case in such a way that he could tell where Bodie had been taken. It seemed impossible; but that was despair talking.**

**Nothing was impossible.**

**He prided himself on his intelligence. Where was it now, when he needed it?**

**Finlay had sold secrets to Wipps and to the Russians, it seemed. Rivals for the same merchandise, one party or the other had killed Finlay for his double-dealing --or perhaps it was triple-dealing, since he was also being paid by, and betraying, the British military establishment. Bloody traitor. Was it Wipps’ people, or Wipps’ enemy, who had Bodie now?**

**Did that matter, with Bodie’s life in the balance?**

**He picked up the drawing he had started, the portrait of Bodie. He had been planning it as a Christmas present. Now he had found that he intensely wanted to keep it for himself, to keep something of Bodie with him when Bodie himself was not there.  
** Sketchy still, he had captured the wry smile, the bright eyes, the neat short hair, the face of the man he loved so much. He thought of the many things he had not captured on paper: the strength of character and force of  
personality, the hunger, the tenacity. The intelligence that hid itself behind jokes. Having made a choice to love, Bodie had stood behind that choice again and again: against the needs of his job, against the dictates of conscience, against common sense and his own safety. 

**Doyle felt the force of his love, wherever he might be. Alive, now, or dead. He had to do something for him, trace him, find him. Show him that love was neither misplaced nor unreturned. Where? How?**

**\- - -**

**Consciousness meant pain, but pain meant life.**

**Awake again after an hour or two of unconsciousness, Bodie moved against confinement; he was tied, jolted around in the boot of a car. He tried to reach the ropes tying his arms, but it was impossible. He was rendered completely immobile by men who knew their business. Nothing to do, then, but continue where he was taken.**

**He tried to memorize sounds, but they were chaotic, muffled, impossible to isolate through an aching head and the cacophony of traffic.**

**Above all things, he hated to be helpless. It infuriated him. He was not afraid, merely angry - angry that these cretins should have terrorized Sarah and Cheryl and, above all, have dared to threaten Doyle. Couldn’t allow an honest copper to live, could they?**

**Time seemed to stretch forever, but it could not have been long since he was taken. An hour, perhaps two at most.**

**He had bought time by pretending to be Doyle. He had, perhaps, saved Sarah and Cheryl. Whether he would be able to save himself remained to be seen.**

**\- - -**

**Doyle calculated the chances of finding Bodie before they killed him. He had, perhaps, hours. Any longer, and the chances were great that Bodie’s captors would learn he was not Doyle, and kill him; or believe he was Doyle, and kill him; or get impatient that he would not co-operate with them, and kill him.**

**He went with Brace back to the station.**

**Brace said merely, “You’ve really fucked it up this time, Doyle, haven’t you?”**

**That angered Doyle. But the focus of his white-hot fury was the bastards who had taken Bodie.**

**Brace was a fool and of no use whatsoever. Doyle found that his own patience in dealing with Brace’s stupidity had come to its limit. Without leave, he went to his office and picked up the telephone and dialled the number of CI5, memorised long since as a route to Bodie. He explained who he was --using his real name --and asked for Major Cowley.**

**Surprisingly, Cowley was on the line at once. “Doyle. What happened?”**

**There was a joy in explaining the situation in a few terse words to a man who understood without explanation, and wasted no time in irrelevant questions.**

**“We’ll need to find him,” said Cowley. “Personal considerations aside, we can’t afford to let them take him to Russia for their interrogation techniques, or to destroy him here in revenge. They will soon find out he isn’t you, and a CI5 man is of more use to them than a policeman, even if they have a grudge. He can’t stall them forever, but he knows how to stay alive under adversity. He’s done it before, often enough.”**

**It was reassurance, of a particularly dry and unexpected kind. Doyle was not so foolish as to thank Cowley for it, but his throat tightened.**

**Cowley’s speculation was confirmed fifteen minutes later, when Doyle received another call on his office telephone. It was a message from Bodie’s kidnappers: “We have Doyle. Give us Wipps and free passage to Moscow, or he dies.”**

**“We’re trying to trace it,” said Sergeant Cooper. “No luck yet.”**

**They wanted me, thought Doyle, because I took Wipps, and he was their meal ticket --the money man, the one with the goods. He and Bodie were wrong, thinking they were enemies, the KGB and Wipps --they were all in it together. Now there was no one to get the Russians out of the country. Finlay had sold too much to too many, but the knowledge was of little good to them here.**

**“Free passage with the information,” said Doyle. “That’s what the passports and the cash are for. Damn!”**

**Sergeant Cooper was looking thoughtful. “Everything all right with your wife, sir?”**

**“Yes.” Doyle frowned, distracted by the workings of her mind. “Why bring that up now?”**

**“Because I don’t think you ever had an affair with another woman, sir. And Cheryl was put in danger today. So was Bodie. I was putting two and two together.”**

**Doyle looked at her sharply. What was she thinking? Implying?**

**She said simply, “Bodie’s a good man, sir. Not the featherweight you once expected. I think he’s . . . . He’s worthy of you. I can’t think of anyone else I’d say that about.”**

**“No,” agreed Doyle, surprised by her comment, impressed by her deduction. How long ago had she guessed it was Bodie he loved? “A very good man.”**

**Cooper nodded. “If he wasn’t,” she said, “none of it would have happened.”**

**Cowley was behind him, with the resources of CI5. They arrived by mid-afternoon at Doyle’s house, at Cowley’s suggestion, cutting Brace out of the picture. Cowley was accompanied by Bodie’s partner Susan, whom Doyle respected if only because she was Bodie’s friend, and by the tall young agent named Murphy.**

**At first Doyle had expected CI5 to want to run the show, but Cowley seemed to be ready to defer to Doyle’s judgement, at least to a point. “This is not under CI5 jurisdiction. It is your case,” he said, when Doyle expressed his surprise. “Bodie had great respect for your abilities. I can only accept his judgement.”**

**Doyle wondered if he was reading double meanings into everything everyone said. But of course, he knew Cowley knew about . . . everything.**

**He accepted Bodie’s word, now, that Cowley was safe with their secret. Which maybe wasn’t quite the secret it should be. Since there was nothing Doyle could do about it, Doyle simply gave Cowley a curt nod. “He had good judgement,” he agreed.**

**“Sometimes,” said Cowley. “Sometimes not. If it were not for his personal involvement in this case, he would not be in their hands, voluntarily or otherwise.”**

**Doyle said coldly, “I would do the same for him.”**

**“Aye, so you would. Leaving your young ones fatherless and your widow grieving.”**

**Doyle turned away, angry. Wait for me, Bodie, he said in silence to the air. Wait for me, and don’t let them kill you. We belong together, you and I, and we won’t let them screw us up. Not now, not ever.**

**He rubbed his face with his hands. Women’s tights.**

**“Bloody hell,” he said. “I think I know where they took him.”**

**The warehouse. The place with the crates of hosiery, where they had taken Finlay, and put him in a crate, and stuffed him with drugs to make him talk about his many employers before they killed him because he knew too much and had sold too much of it to too many. Secrets are of maximum value when they are exclusive.**

**Now it was Bodie in the crate. They bashed him about when they opened the boot again. There had been more unconsciousness, more pain. He guessed by the light that perhaps another hour had gone by. His vision blurred, cleared, and then blurred again. Damn! The effects of concussion. Nausea, pain. He withstood it. He tried to distance himself from the pain, as Shusai had taught him. As the experts in pain had taught him. Find his own space, ignore the blows to his body.**

**He vomited.**

**They were talking to him. He could not tell, at first, whether the questions were in English or in Russian, since the voice was accented and he was trying not to listen to it. Sometimes he heard what they said. They kept calling him Mr Doyle, which struck him as funny, but it was hell to laugh because of the pain in his head. His ears were ringing.**

**After a while the men went away, leaving him alone for a bit. The blows stopped, which was an improvement. He ached all over, especially inside his skull. He kept falling because his knees were none too sturdy, but when he did, his arms were yanked painfully against the handcuffs that held him to the slats of the crate he was in.**

**He was in no doubt as to where he was. He recognised the place at first by its smell. He remembered being here with Doyle, so long ago that they had not so much as touched each other yet. It was difficult now to believe there had ever been such a time as that.**

**At one point his vision cleared, and he was able to see his watch, the silly Superman watch that Susan had once given him after his had been smashed in a ridiculous case involving a banker. Three hours, he had been here in the crate. The darkness of late December settled hard in this enclosed space, and he was shivering. The building was not heated.**

**Pray that Cheryl and Sarah were all right. Doyle couldn’t do without them. He might have to do without Bodie --well, it would mean that the villains had made a choice for him that he had been unable to make for himself. Would Doyle be able to get on with his life, then? Try as he might, Bodie could not believe it was possible. He had seen Doyle’s face when he had told him they had to make an end of it. He knew what that had done to Doyle.**

**He could not allow that.**

**There had been many dead ends in his life. Krivas, Africa, Marikka. Doyle was not one of them. In a lifetime of regrets, Doyle stood out as the best, the most rewarding, the most worthwhile thing that had ever happened to him. He hoped to live to tell him so. If not . . . it would not be for lack of trying.**

**He imagined himself carving his and Doyle’s initials in a heart on the side of the crate, there on the support which was all the wood he could touch.**

**He smiled at the idiocy of it. As if Doyle didn’t already know how well he was loved.**

**Otherwise, his only regret was that he had failed Cowley. I did what I could, sir. You know I won’t talk.**

**Suddenly there was light, and he was blinking at four silhouettes and a bright lamp shining on him. It had to be the KGB contingent.**

**“Mr Doyle,” said a voice, cold and grating as the Siberian plains. “I trust your friends have listened to our demands. Perhaps they need you to speak to them.”**

**“Forget it,” said Bodie, and was hit across the face for his effort. He spat blood and lost his vision again. His head already hurt so much they couldn’t make it worse. So he spoke to the dark blur he believed to be Kalenkov’s face. “They won’t give you Wipps. Why should they? He has all Finlay’s information, doesn’t he? It isn’t the pleasure of his company you want. It’s the details of the weaponry. Well, it’s too late now.”**

**“Too late?” asked the Russian. “Why too late?”**

**“Because we have come to collect our friend,” said another, purely English voice behind him.**

**The Russian turned. “Who the hell are you?”**

**“Ray Doyle,” said Doyle. Bodie could suddenly see well enough to know that there was, amazingly, a gun in his hands. Except on his birthday when they were shooting at the farm, he had only once seen Doyle with a gun. “This is Superintendent Brace of Scotland Yard; Major Cowley of CI5; Miss Fisher, Sergeant Cooper, Mr Murphy. You are Ivan Kalenkov of the KGB and you are under arrest for kidnapping, murder and espionage.”**

**So it all came together: Finlay’s crime and his death, the unholy alliance of Wipps and Kalenkov, the hard work of Cowley, Susan and Bodie in tracing the high-tech weapons and long chain of discoveries that had added up to knowledge enough to convict Wipps and Kalenkov. This was the purpose and the strength of CI5, taking resources from all areas, adding up the puzzles and coming to sometimes impossible conclusions.**

**Kalenkov whirled, to shoot Bodie. Instead, the gun was shot out of his hand. He screamed, holding his bleeding fingers.**

**“Well done,” whispered Bodie to Doyle, admiring the marksmanship as well as the reflexes. He could not speak aloud, all he could move was his legs. With a sudden vicious energy, he kicked Kalenkov, who fell backwards into Susan’s grasp. Susan restrained him and fastened the handcuffs with satisfaction. Bodie’s vision ebbed again.**

**Doyle ran to him and released him from the handcuffs. Bodie half-fell out of the crate, and found himself supported by the steady arms he most desired. “Doyle,” he said, his voice hardly functional as Doyle lowered him to sit on a box, supporting him with a reliable strength.**

**Bodie took a deep breath. He cleared his throat. He’d have to take hold of himself, pull himself together. Stupid to cling to Doyle, or to stare into his eyes like this, with people surrounding them. Cowley. Strangers. Doyle’s boss. His feelings must be clear on his face. Christ! He loved him so much.**

**Doyle kissed him.**

**He let it happen. He let Doyle kiss him on the mouth and in public, didn’t make a move to stop him. He could feel the strength come back into him. He shouldn’t have let him do it. He knew the consequences just as Doyle did. But for the moment it was the kiss that mattered, and nothing else in the universe.**

**He heard Brace’s voice: “Doyle, what is this?”**

**Doyle raised his head. “This is my lover, sir. His name is Bodie.”**

**When Brace had walked away without a word, Bodie said, “You shouldn’t’ve done that, mate. He’ll give you grief. You’ll lose your job.”**

**“I don’t care,” said Doyle. “You were ready to die for me. I’m not going to keep you a secret. I’m through with that. To hell with my job.”**

**“Madman,” said Bodie. He touched Doyle’s cheek, lightly, then pushed himself to his feet unsteadily, watching the policeman taking Kalenkov’s companions into custody. Whether they understood the dialogue that had taken place or the seriousness of the situation was irrelevant. In November, the weapons they had manufactured and used had been found and confiscated by Bodie and Susan, their freedom to operate curtailed, and their intentions revealed. Little remained but to arrange their justified  
deportation. They would probably, thought Doyle viciously, end up in some dismal gulag, which they richly deserved. Wipps’ career in illegal merchandise and information was over and England was a safer place than it had been. **

**Bodie found himself wobbling, and held by Doyle’s arms as he landed abruptly on one of the crates. Doyle held his hands. “Hang in there,” said Doyle encouragingly.**

**Cowley came over to Bodie and Doyle and said, “Are you all right, 3.7?” He seemed to be overlooking the fact that Bodie sat with Doyle’s arms around him.**

**“Except for a headache, I believe so, sir.”**

**“Concussion,” said Doyle.**

**“Check in with the doctor immediately. Mr Doyle, will you see him back to his flat? And then I would ask you to visit me at CI5 headquarters at 10 a.m. tomorrow?”**

**“Me?” said Doyle.**

**Cowley’s intense stare made him aware of the stupidity of the remark. This was not a man who said things he did not mean, as a matter of course. “If it is possible,” said Cowley, with barely-concealed impatience. “Would another time be more convenient for you?”**

**“Ten o’clock would be fine,” said Doyle.**

**Cowley followed the others out. Susan Fisher, who was his driver this evening, followed at his heels. As they got to the doorway, she turned back to glance at Bodie and Doyle, and grinned. Then she too was gone. “What was that about?” Doyle asked Bodie.**

**“With the Cow,” said Bodie, “you find out what he wants when he wants you to know and not a moment sooner.”**

**“The Cow?” Doyle grinned.**

**“Don’t get cocky. You haven’t earned the right to call him that. Maybe he wants to congratulate us on our relationship.” The absurd idea made him laugh again, and then feel sick.**

**Doyle said, “Can you stand?”**

**“In a minute. My arms are all pins and needles, and m’legs are stiff. But I can see again.”**

**Doyle smiled devilishly.**

**“Oh no, you don’t,” said Bodie. “Not here. Not after he’s already seen you kiss me. Hands off, you curly-haired octopus.”**

**“D’you think we shocked him?”**

**“I don’t want to think about it.”**

**“Coward,” said Doyle. “Want to come to the panto?”**

**“You’re mad,” said Bodie.**

**They walked out. Doyle supported Bodie most of the way to the car, and then took Bodie home.**

**From Bodie’s place, he phoned Cheryl, and told her what had happened. “I’m not coming home tonight,” he said.**

**“I didn’t expect you would,” she said, without rancour. “Take good care of him, Ray. He would have died for you.”**

**“I know,” said Doyle. “Daft bugger.”**

**“Thank God he is,” said Cheryl.**

**Bodie woke in the middle of the night. A couple of tablets of painkiller and a good sleep had handled the headache and the nausea. He felt relaxed now and at peace, as he lay with his head on Doyle’s shoulder and Doyle slept.**

**In a lifetime of rootlessness, Bodie had never known anything like this. He did not remember being cradled by his parents, had seldom experienced tenderness without sex. To lie as if he belonged here was something that shook him with its unfamiliarity, and reached to a level deeper than thought. The warmth of Doyle’s body and spirit anchored him as nothing else had ever done.**

**To lie, without needs or motives, connected to this man, made him want to weep, but not with sadness. He could not have said what he was feeling, and would have been embarrassed to try. He only knew that he had found what he had always needed, without knowing who or what it was, and that nothing would ever be the same for him again.**

**After a time he slept, soundly and without dreams.**

**In the morning, he was well enough to run, and did so, with Doyle, their breath white in the damp winter air. After they were through, at nine o’clock, Doyle went to his office at the station and immediately received, as he had expected, a summons to visit the Great Man.**

**It was a meeting with Brace that had been inevitable from the day he had been put under his jurisdiction; inevitable from the day he first saw Bodie, gun in hand, in that Romany Road house and had tried to arrest him.**

**He knew what was coming. It should have filled him with trepidation: this was the end of a career he had worked for with all his effort for years, giving it all he had through bad times and worse. He should have felt angry. All those teenage ambitions and youthful hopes which had matured into dedication and focussed hard work were for nothing, now. He had liked the challenge his work gave him, he loved being with the police, felt great satisfaction in the work he did and his skill in it.**

**So now they’d chuck him out, regardless of his excellent working record, all for nothing because he was labelled now, marked with the mark of Cain, revealed as a pervert and unclean. Can’t have queers in the constabulary.**

**It should have made him bitter. Bodie was one of the best things in his life: their relationship didn’t make him a worse cop, made him a better one.**

**Instead of anger he felt a freedom and sense of anticipation. Life changed. Life always changed. There were opportunities ahead of him, and he would find them. Things worked out in time, coming full circle. The feisty young tearaway who had decided to become a copper had turned into the young man who had become a constable, and then eventually Inspector in the respected ranks of the CID. And now --the next step to the future, whatever it held.**

**It had to be better than working with the Superintendent.**

**He knocked on the door.**

**“Come in,” said Brace, and he went in, expecting the worst.**

**He got it.**

**The interview lasted less than five minutes, and Doyle had the last word. When he left the room, he was no longer Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan London Police Department, but simply Ray Doyle, private citizen.**

**Oddly enough, it felt like a promotion.**

**His appointment with George Cowley lasted somewhat longer.**

**Cowley’s office in Whitehall was surprisingly unpretentious. A plant on a file cabinet and a portrait of the Queen were the only decorations in the room. It was functional, businesslike, and not a little intimidating, rather like the sharp Scotsman who worked in it.**

**A dark-haired woman efficiently brought a cup of tea, knowing exactly how Doyle liked it without being asked. She then disappeared, leaving Doyle face to face with Major George Cowley, the dragon of CI5. The man Bodie called the Cow, or, simply, sir. The man Bodie admired above all others, and would follow into hell, given the chance.**

**Since Doyle refused to be intimidated or to admit it when he was, he started the conversation. “You probably do not yet know,” he said, “that Superintendent Brace fired me this morning.”**

**“I didn’t know,” admitted Cowley. “But I had guessed it was about to happen. Knowing the circumstances. Knowing Brace. Having watched you provoke the issue yesterday.” Though his tone was polite, Doyle had the impression that Cowley thought as little of Brace as he did.**

**“I was tired of fudging my priorities,” he said.**

**“Indeed. I know you can be discreet when you wish, for as long as you wish. You would not have accomplished what you have, otherwise. Your case files are remarkable.”**

**Doyle felt uncomfortable. He knew he was being set up. But for what? He kept his eyes on Cowley’s face, trying to guess the Scotsman’s thoughts. Might as well try to read Pravda.**

**Cowley took a document file and passed it to Doyle. “Read this. But first . . . understand that your relationship with Bodie has been a matter which has disturbed me greatly. Bodie is my best operative. He has, in the past, had several unfortunate liaisons. I was concerned that his personal problems might affect his judgement and his work. The extremity of his commitment to you was obvious. I was concerned that if -- when -- you left him, he would have little taste for life left.”**

**“He’s had a hard life,” said Doyle. “Mostly he’s had to make a go of it alone. I don’t want to make things worse for him. Ever.”**

**“Frankly,” said Cowley, “I thought you would abandon him for your wife as soon as the novelty wore off.”**

**“No,” said Doyle, firmly. “I will not leave him for any reason whatsoever.” He let his certainty speak for itself.**

**“I have been forced to observe that Bodie’s work is as efficient as ever. More so. I have reviewed your work record with considerable thoroughness, and I have been impressed. Bodie once told me that you were the best man he had ever worked with. Brace, on the other hand, said you were headstrong and foolish. I need not tell you that for several years now I have valued Bodie’s judgement highly, particularly with regard to his observations about people. I will keep my observations of Superintendent Brace to  
myself.” **

**“Why am I here, then?” asked Doyle.**

**“Since Brace has burned your bridges in the Met, I thought you might be interested in working with us. Please read the documents which I have handed you.”**

**“Interested?” said Doyle. He did not glance at the papers. “Of course I’m interested! I’ve wanted to work in CI5 ever since I first heard of it. I envied Bodie.”**

**“Read it,” said Cowley.**

**The old slavedriver made him read every word, including the small print. He briskly answered every comment and every query Doyle had, some of which were not particularly complimentary to CI5. Perhaps he saw the respect which underlay the questions, and the honesty which prompted them.**

**He was not invariably patient. “Of course I may well ask you to do things which are against your conscience,” he said. “Speaking frankly, this is not an organisation of cream puffs -- to use Bodie’s expression. There are times when you will be forced to accept my judgement, as I will at times be forced to accept yours. You may be relieved that you will not be given thumbscrew duty in the torture chamber. You may be disturbed to learn that sometimes you will have to pretend to be the torturer’s apprentice.”**

**Doyle considered it. “I’m actually a rather good actor,” he said.**

**“In varying circumstances and at various times you may be asked to perform extralegal activities. Sometimes you will be given these duties and denied the security of CI5 backing.”**

**“On my own, you mean?”**

**“On your own, with your partner.”**

**“Bodie?”**

**“Inevitably.”**

**“Working on our own judgement, our own responsibility?”**

**“On some occasions. At other times, the judgement and responsibility will be mine, and mine alone, and it will be for you and Bodie to obey without question --whether you understand or not.”**

**“You’re asking me to sell my soul,” said Doyle.**

**“Aye. But for a good cause.”**

**Doyle saw the barely hidden humour in Cowley’s eyes. The old devil, he thought. No wonder Bodie loves him and hates him and would follow him anywhere. He reached for Cowley’s pen and signed the papers at the bottom, with a wide scrawl.**

**“You’re very quick,” said Cowley, “to sign away your life.”**

**“If I had any doubts, I wouldn’t,” said Doyle. “I’ve observed CI5 in action and I’ve seen Bodie’s life close up. I think I can do you some good, though to tell you the truth, I’m surprised you want me, sir. Considering the report Brace must have made of me.”**

**Cowley nodded. “Brace’s hostility was one of the best recommendations you could have.” He stood. He held out his hand. “I expect you’ll want to be off to tell Bodie about this, particularly my intention to have you work with him. Before you go to do that, I want to offer my congratulations on your personal relationship with him. I was slow to come to accept it. I know now I was dealing with certain fears and prejudices which were unfounded. His judgement is sound. I wish you both every happiness.”  
Doyle managed, barely, to keep his jaw from dropping. “Thank you, sir,” he said. He recognised suddenly that Cowley was as close to family as Bodie had, and that they and their love had his blessing. **

**That would mean a lot, to Bodie.**

**They shook hands. “Welcome to the Squad, 4.5,” said George Cowley.**

**Doyle went back to Bodie’s place. He had already phoned Cheryl with his good news, but he wanted to talk to Bodie in person.**

**The flat was quiet, cold, and empty. He knew Bodie was not on a job, or at CI5 headquarters --he had asked, and had been told by the personable young woman named Betty that he was at home. So where was Bodie now? On his own in London before lunchtime?**

**He went back outside, knowing Bodie’s restless nature. He might have gone to the pub, except that the pub hadn’t opened yet. They’d already been running. But Bodie liked to think out of doors, so he went walking to the Embankment and found Bodie there, looking out over the Thames.**

**“What kind of a bloody idiot goes for a walk on a day like today?” he demanded. “Bet we get sleet soon, if not snow. Come home and get warm with me.”**

**“What happened with Brace?” asked Bodie.**

**“He sacked me.”**

**They had both expected it. “So what’ll you do?” asked Bodie, concern in his eyes.**

**“Ask me my good news first.”**

**“What good news?”**

**“About what Cowley said to me.”**

**“What’d Cowley say?” asked Bodie, curiosity arching his eyebrows. The wind from the Thames was cold, and Doyle drew up his collar.**

**“Offered me a job,” said Doyle, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.**

**Bodie was silent for a moment. Then he said slowly, “What’d you say?”**

**“Asked if he’d talked it over with you. He said he’d wanted to talk to me first, see if I was interested and willing.”**

**“Are you?” asked Bodie.**

**“Told him I had misgivings. Said I didn’t much like his subterranean interrogation rooms and the high-handed ways of CI5.”**

**“So he said?”**

**“He said he needed an idealist in the organisation.”**

**“He’s right,” said Bodie. “The rest of us are too bloody pragmatic. We forget about the principles sometimes.”**

**“You don’t,” said Doyle. “You may think you do, but you’re the most honourable man I ever met.”**

**Bodie looked at him in surprise, one eyebrow raised in scepticism. “What brought that on?” he asked.**

**“Sheer terror. Then I asked who I’d be working with and he said that since Susan was going to be doing undercover work, you needed a new partner. He asked if I thought I could stand to work with you. D’you think you can manage to work with me, Bodie?”**

**“Managed before,” said Bodie.**

**They looked over the water, feeling the damp chill in the wind that the sun did not warm. Bodie was smiling.**

**“Of course what I really want,” said Doyle, “is the chance to call Major Cowley the Cow. Reckon I can put up with you meantime, but you’ll have to call me 4.5.”**

**“Call you a bloody fool. Let’s go home,” said Bodie.**

**Later, when Bodie was at home alone, he received a hand-written note from Cheryl. It said, "Bodie, do come over tomorrow and help us decorate for Christmas. "**

**At the bottom of the note she had written, For what you did for us, I thank you. Bodie pondered that, and put it on his mantlepiece. The picture was a Christmas motif, with the words love and peace in old-fashioned writing intertwined.**

**The house on Dorncliffe Road had a holly wreath on the door, and someone’s mittens on the walk. He picked them up, and judged them, by the size, to be Kevin’s. He took them in with him.**

**When he had first come here, it had been with hope in his heart. His mood had changed from week to week: hope to anger, anger to fear, fear to determination. And a thousand emotions in between, all of them mixed with love.**

**Before he could knock, the door opened. Bascombe greeted him with paws on shoulders and tongue on face; he dodged and said sternly, “Down, Bascombe!” The dog obeyed with a happy woof, tail wagging in anticipation of a walk.**

**It was Cheryl at the other end of the leash. “Come with us, Bodie,” she said. “I want to talk. No, it won’t be horrible. I have something to give you. Come on!”**

**So instead of going right in to see Doyle and the children, Bodie went with Cheryl and followed Bascombe down the street, till they came to Bishop’s Park by the bend in the Thames. Children were running and playing in the crisp December air. The chill rain had turned to snow, falling wetly around them, melting to water on the ground. Their breath frosted at their mouths and Bascombe, revelling in his thick coat of hair, romped like a puppy in the wet grass. Weather never mattered to Bascombe, who came  
with a built-in fuzzy rug. Cheryl loosed the chain, and watch the dog, freed, run to explore the smells at the base of trees. **

**“I wanted to thank you,” said Cheryl.**

**“You already did,” said Bodie.**

**“I wanted to explain something to you. When you did what you did . . . . I thought they were going to take you and kill you, instead of Ray.”**

**“I thought they might, too,” said Bodie. “On the whole, I was glad they didn’t kill me right off.”**

**She slipped her arm through his. “At first, I was glad they were going to kill you and not my Ray. It was a selfish sort of gladness, but I wanted him to live.**

**“Then I thought about it. And I realised how unhappy he would be if that happened. If you died in his place. That made me remember how happy he has been -- even through the bad times, when we fought, there is something about his life that is better because you are in it. I don’t want him to lose that, Bodie. I don’t want him to be unhappy, and he would be desperately unhappy without you now. I’m not sure . . . it sounds melodramatic, but I’m not sure he could live without you.”**

**Bodie made no reply. He thought so too, but Doyle would not want it said aloud, for his pride’s sake, or for Cheryl’s.**

**“At first I was jealous. Angry. Thought you’d taken something from me that I couldn’t bear to lose. Now . . . it seems strange that I thought that.”**

**“I disrupted your life rather badly,” said Bodie. “Changed the way things were for you both.”**

**“So you did. Is my life worse for it? Ray is alive because of you. Happier than he has ever been, because of you. More loving to me, too, though not at home quite so often.”**

**“What can I say?” said Bodie. “I’d have taken him from you if I could have. I couldn't. And now . . . it’s like you said. He wouldn’t be happy without you and the children. Even if he could make the choice to leave you, I couldn't ask it of him, or want it.”**

**She nodded. “I have something for you.” She took a small box out of her pocket and held it out on her palm. He did not recognise the box, but he realised at once what it was. He met her eyes, without taking it.**

**“Go on,” she said.**

**He took it in his hand, opened it. It was the gold chain he had given Doyle on his birthday, gleaming in a bed of cotton, neatly repaired.**

**“You gave it to him originally,” she said. “I thought it only right for you to give it to him a second time. I apologised to him, but not to you. I’m sorry I broke it, Bodie.”**

**“Thank you,” said Bodie. He put it in his pocket. It was only a symbol, but sometimes symbols matter because the things they represent are so important.**

**Cheryl called to Bascombe, who was showing altogether too much interest in a poodle half his size. Bascombe came bounding back to them, then ran off in pursuit of a squirrel.**

**“Family is what we make of it,” she said. “Treat him well, Bodie --but I know you will. He needs you.”**

**“We’re going to be working together,” said Bodie. “Me and Doyle. Both of us in CI5.”**

**She nodded. “So I understand. Heaven help CI5.”**

**“CI5 will do fine,” said Bodie. “It’s the terrorists who ought to be worrying.”**

**Christmas Eve at the Doyle household consisted in trying to keep the dog from eating the decorations on the tree, in keeping the cats inside the house despite the frequency with which the doors opened, in preventing the youngest, Kevin, from overturning the pots of fudge on the stove, and ensuring that the other children were occupied.**

**“Especially Doyle,” said Bodie, who had a gentleman’s eye for tree decoration, and had brought mysterious wrapped gifts for everyone. He looked sceptically at Sarah. “Heard you were an angel,” he**

**said. “Can’t believe it, myself. You must have been miscast.”**

**“Going to be a policeman when I grow up,” she announced.**

**“You can’t be,” said Michael.**

**“I can be anything I want to be!”**

**Cheryl said, “Kevin, no,” and a poinsettia plant landed on its side, the pot cracking along its length.**

**At this precise point the dog took the end of a string of popcorn, and began to run with it, children trailing after him, screaming through the house. They were followed by Cheryl.**

**Bodie would have joined the crowd, but Doyle reached out and grabbed his arm.**

**“Eh?” said Bodie.**

**“Look up,” said Doyle.**

**Bodie looked up at a sprig of mistletoe.**

**He looked at Doyle.**

**“Not my fault, mate,” said Doyle. “Someone else must have hung it there.”**

**“Bascombe, perhaps,” said Bodie, conversationally. “Silly heathen ritual.”**

**“Ritual, hell,” said Doyle. “Those heathen knew how to celebrate a holiday.”**

**He put his arms around Bodie, felt him stiffen and then relax. He ran his hand over Bodie’s hair. “It’s all right,” he said. “We’re alive, and together, and we have a future together. Believe it.”**

**“You can make me believe anything,” said Bodie.**

**“That’s love, mate,” said Doyle. He slowly brought their mouths together, slowly kissed him. The sensuous warmth made Bodie’s pulse quicken and his breath disappear altogether.**

**“Happy Christmas,” whispered Doyle.**

**Bodie said softly, “If Christmas is about giving, you have given me everything. Your love . . . . Your happiness with me . . . . I cannot imagine needing more, or wanting more, or being so lucky. I don’t know if you can understand what it means to me. I do know that this love means everything to me, and will last forever.”**

**“You daft bugger,” said Doyle. “Of course it will. New beginnings. Works both ways, you know, this love business. We’re together now.”**

**Content in his arms, Bodie smiled. “Happy new year,” he said, in anticipation.**

**\- - -  
**

**Author's Note:**

>  _Forever True_ was first published in 1997 by Keynote Press, Ottawa, Canada. Details (including major spoilers for plot twists) can be seen at [_Forever True_](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Forever_True#It.27s_Unique_Theme). With thanks to Jean Kluge for the original cover art, and to Marcelle Gibson for editing and publishing the zine.


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